


Dial Tones

by starcat



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Dubious Ethics, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, One-Sided Relationship, Past Relationship(s), Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Spanking, USUK - Freeform, a few side characters to keep things smooth, definitely that one yes, fruk mention, mention of the, they are both very bad for one another, ummm - Freeform, unhappy relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-03 08:30:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5283842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starcat/pseuds/starcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Previously titled: 'Hello?']<br/>Alfred never has a reason to call Arthur, especially in the middle of the night. Arthur, however, always does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Alfred ☆ 4:00am; Tuesday.

**Author's Note:**

> There will be 2 parts to this - the second will be the reason for the E rating.  
> Please leave comments, kudos, bookmarks. It's real nice and encouraging, and it keeps me posting.  
> \- K
> 
> EDIT: This is no longer only contained to 2 parts. Enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dial tones are always loudest in an empty apartment.

If asked of his motives, Alfred would have loved to say that he had a reason behind it.   
That he had this master plan, a grand scheme that would possibly work to justify his actions; but he didn't. He hadn't even consciously planned to make the call, however, as he heard the dial tone sounding beside his ear like some sort of wake-up-call, with his eyes focused on the ceiling of his apartment, he realised he had no idea what he was going to say. He had no idea what had driven him to scroll through his contacts, to press the phone icon and not hang up straight away as he usually did in this exact reoccurring situation. The fact that his apartment was eerily quiet compared to an hour or so ago when he had had some people over for a drink seemed to only compliment the pattern of noises that symbolised the fact that he knew he was fucking up. Yet, he couldn't bring himself to end the call. Maybe it was the liquid courage in his veins, or the fact that he wanted to hear something – someone, a voice, _his_ voice – other than the seemingly distant sounds of the city below him; regardless, by the time the other line was picked up, he knew that no matter how he felt, he was too far in.  
_He_ would know Alfred had called. The thought of _him_ knowing that he had called and hung up bothered Alfred; _he_ would know that he had backed out of it at the last moment. If _he_ would be talking about it to someone else, _he_ would no doubt add on 'like he always does' to _his_ sentence, with that trademark scowl on _his_ features. _He_ never used to scowl so much.  
  
“Hello?”  
Arthur's voice was groggy. Tired. Alfred could hear a rustling of sheets in the background, a stifled yawn. His accent was thicker than usual, signifying to the American that he had truly interrupted sleep. It was comforting, though. In an odd sense. Alfred knew that that was probably due to the fact that he was drunk, more than anything. Never when he was sober would he ever admit that he actually missed the sound of his voice, and that accent he never seemed to grow tired of. It was warm compared to the chills that his own empty apartment gave him, the open space that seemed dead without others occupying it. Fake, even. Alfred just as well be part of the furniture. “Hello?” He hadn't answered. He could hear slight confusion and irritation within his voice, masked with patience and a knowledge that the call was possibly an important one.  
That, it wasn't. At least, it wouldn't be in _his_ eyes.

“Hey.” Alfred's own voice sounded foreign, like it didn't belong to him at all. Too gruff, tired. It echoed down the halls, bouncing off walls plastered with various colourful posters of fictional works Alfred often found comfort in immersing himself within. A true contrast to how he really felt, how every day seemed to unfold. The same grey days.  
There was more silence, and Alfred closed his eyes from the view of white plaster to imagine what exactly was happening on the other side of the line. Bed-hair, flushed cheeks, knitted brows. Looking over at the clock to check the time. Blinking to try and wake up properly. The faint smell of lavender and mint. A comfortable quiet. One of stark contrast to the quiet that surrounded Alfred, the one that begged him to escape from it in any means possible, yet always seemed to come back. It was one that seemed attached to him, one that was always there, like a demon hanging onto his back. It would _always_ be there.

“Alfred?” He was confused. Alfred could tell by his tone, and he knew that he would probably be massaging his temples in resignation, his eyes closed and his forehead creasing in a way that always made him look at least 10 years older than he was. He had given him the same look whenever he had done stupid things when growing up. The same look he had given him when Alfred had said he wanted to be independent. “Alfred, is that you? God, it's four in the morning! What in the bloody hell could you want at this hour?” He knew it was four. He knew Arthur had been sleeping, however at least a small part of him had hoped that he'd been up too, like Alfred was. The better part of him knew that that was a stupid thing to hope for. That it was unrealistic.

“Hey, Arthur.” He wasn't used to saying his name like that any more. As a whole. Not a nickname, or a name abbreviated into something impersonal. It felt weird in his mouth. Heavy, almost.  
Alfred swallowed, and heard Arthur sigh in apparent annoyance from the other side of the line, accompanied with further rustling of movement under his duvet. He wondered what cover he had on it at that moment, whether he still had that pillow he would put underneath Alfred's head whenever he fell asleep on the sofa while reading a book. He always read the same ones, over and over. Yet he couldn't remember the titles of them to save his life, let alone what they had been about. Did Arthur have those too? Or did he burn them in the fireplace? “I...” Arthur was waiting for him to speak again, to offer some sort of explanation.  
He didn't have one. “I wanted to see how you're going.” It sounded pathetic, even to him. Yet he didn't scramble to correct himself, nor throw in his usual satirical comment that Arthur found downright obnoxious. He just listened to Arthur's steady breathing. The occasional sniffle of a cold that was receding into non-existence. Was it cold there? It was cold in the apartment, despite the fact it was hot enough to brand a tan onto Alfred's skin during the day. He had goosebumps on his arms.

“I was sleeping.”  
“I'm sorry.”  
“What do you want, Alfred?"  
Again, with that question. He had no answer, no concocted lie that he had pre-prepared in order to make sure he didn't look stupid or desperate. To make sure he didn't look lonely. Alfred found himself looking across the room, through the window that overlooked the city; full of life and movement despite the early hour. He could see people moving through the windows across the street – shadow puppet figures, weaving and interacting in their own worlds. “Alfred, I'm going to hang up. If this is your idea of a prank, it's a new level of childish on your--”

“How are you, Arthur?” _Please stay on the line. Please keep talking. I can almost pretend as if you're here, with that disgruntled expression and hint of anger you always seem to carry on your person. What are you so angry about? Are you even angry at all? Why is it getting harder to read you, to understand you? Why are you so distant?_  
There was no answer straight away, and Alfred thought for a split second that Arthur had put down the phone and left it, if not for the slight sound of an exhale.  
_Please talk to me._

“I'm fine.” It was sharp and concise, the tone of business that Alfred had grown to hate over the years due to it's formal nature, the fact that it was just so... emotionless, so hollow. Something said out of necessity rather than anything else. “I'm really just fine, Alfred.”

“I miss you.”  
The words slipped past his lips without a second thought; the small sentence hanging in the air by a string of apprehension as Alfred watched a couple embrace on a balcony. He wondered what they were talking about. He wondered if they were happy. He wondered what it was like. To be _with_ someone. He didn't remember how it felt when he lived with Arthur, growing up. It all seemed like another life, like it barely happened. Like it had always been like this between them. Scattered pieces, short sentences, hollow words and gritted teeth. He knew that that's not how things were supposed to be. Not _really_.

“Are you drunk?”  
“That doesn't matter.”  
“Go to sleep, Alfred.”

“I miss you, Arthur.” His eyes were screwed shut. As if the tighter he would clench them, the more likely he would open them to see the Brit across from him, sitting on the shag carpet on the floorboards of his living room cross legged and bathed in moonlight that streamed in through the slightly opened up windows. He could smell the alcohol on his own breath. “We... don't talk. I haven't seen you since the last meeting.”

“There's a reason for that.”  
It hurt more than it should have. The words were harsh in nature, yet spoken with care. Arthur had intended to say them as they were, when they were, how they were. He wasn't like Alfred; he didn't say things on impulse, he didn't say what was on his mind, what he really felt. He was practised, well rehearsed; at least, with Alfred he was. He was never personal, like he had once been. He didn't smile when he talked to him any more. “You know that. It's been like this for years, Alfred.”

“Is he there? With you?” He didn't want to say 'his' name. Not in this situation; it tasted like bile on his tongue, and left his lips like knives; cutting up. There was rustling as Arthur sounded to be getting up from his bed, no doubt leaving his room. Maybe to sit on that old chair he had, the one he liked to read on and that Alfred would occasionally sit upon the arm as Arthur read to him from the complicated works he adored. Alfred would just look at the words and ask for their meanings, watch as Arthur's face displayed countless micro-emotions that he would learn how to read like a second language as he aged. Arthur had a defence mechanism that had formed over countless years; however, with every wall there were always cracks to see through. You just had to find them.

“No.”  
“You're _lying_.”  
“That's none of your business, Alfred.”  
“It is, and you know it.”  
“Alfred.”  
“Is he there?”  
“ _Yes_.”  
Alfred inhaled, and he found himself sitting up on his sofa, the furniture creaking ever so slightly as his feet hit the floor. Despite living there alone for years, it still felt foreign. It didn't feel like home. He wasn't sure where exactly would. He hadn't felt home for...

“Is he listening?”  
“No. He's asleep.” In his bed. Alfred knew he was in his bed. Blissfully unaware, sound. He could hear the sound of the kettle being switched on. He couldn't stop thinking about the fact that he had been sleeping right next to Arthur in a show of intimacy Alfred didn't know. Not any more. It was part of a past long gone. One he yearned to have back. God, he would give anything...

“You don't love him.” It was obvious for Alfred – not just a hope that he had fooled himself into believing. He knew Arthur, he knew what his love entailed. He knew his warm smiles, the way his green eyes brightened, stolen glances and soft touches and hitched breaths. It was genuine, and pure.

“No. I don't.” Arthur was simple with his answer. The thought didn't bring any solace to Alfred. He knew he had no right to be angry. He had no right to anything with Arthur. He had no right to the memories he held so dearly, the nights he spent in his own room, telling himself everything between them was as it was while he breathed heavy sins into the air; hand shamelessly working away while he pretended it didn't belong to him. While he pretended, pretended, pretended. He was always pretending.

“Why do you do it then?”  
“Do what?”

His feigned ignorance stirred something within Alfred, a slight spark of anger landing on his tongue as he walked through his dark dwelling, feet almost silent against the cold floor. He sat at the table. He tried not to think that while he was sitting alone, Arthur would sit opposite Francis. Talk softly to him as they shared breakfast, as he drank his tea and read the papers and did those fiddly puzzles in blue pen.

“Why do you let him touch you? Why do you let him near you? Sleep next to you at night? Why do you let him _fuck_ you?” He practically spat his profanities, his teeth gritting as he found his grip around his phone tightening until it was painted with white knuckles and the threat of light bruising.

“Alfred, stop this.” He sounded tired, worn out. For some reason, this did nothing but fuel the small fire that danced on Alfred's nerves, his words spilling out on their own accord. He wasn't a  _child_ anymore.

_Was this his reason?_

“Why do you let him? That used to be me, Arthur! _That was me!"_  His voice was rising in volume, and he could hear it echo through the kitchen, reminding him of how goddamn alone he was. Reminding him that all the lights were off, that all his so-called 'friends' had left his house with their one-night-stands and their 'lovers' to spend the night with people who 'loved them' – if only for a brief moment.

“Was. Alfred, it's... not like that any more. Please stop this nonsense. You're acting like a child.”  
_No._ You're _acting like a child._

“You don't even love him! Why do you let him do that? I loved you, Arthur! And _you loved me!_ And now he's... he's there, and he's with you and he's touching you and you don't even fucking love him yet you let him! You fucking let him do everything we had, everything we did. Was it not special? Did it mean nothing to you? Did _I_ mean nothing? Why? Why _him?_ ”

“Because he loves me.”

“I _loved_ you too!” Alfred slammed his hand down on the table, his palm smacking the wood with enough force to make a sound that resonated throughout the room, bouncing off the white walls. He could remember Arthur sitting on the edge of the counter, legs swinging, smiling as the morning sun would shine through his blonde hair and illuminate it with the essence of a halo. Soft kisses, the smell of cinnamon. Gentle sex, hiccups, prayers. “...I loved you too.” It was quieter. His voice was quieter, hoarser, and he realised that the anger had resonated into something else entirely, his head throbbing and his hands shaking.

“That wasn't love, Alfred.”  
“Did you love me too?”  
“It was never that simple.”  
“Did you love me too, Arthur?”  
“Alfr--”  
“DID YOU EVER LOVE ME TOO? OR WAS I JUST LIKE HE IS?” He could hear the shocked silence at the sudden anger in his voice, the uncharacteristic change in personality that was always so well masked, always so well preserved and hardly witnessed. “FUCKING TALK TO ME, ARTHUR! FUCKING ANSWER ME!”

“You were nothing like he is.” He was speaking through his teeth.  
_Lavender, mint, tea. Old melodies, crackling vinyl, gentle dances. Passion filled kisses, lustful gestures, stolen time. Was it stolen? Or was it lost?_ “I loved you, too.”

“Then why--”

“I still _do_ love you.”  
Alfred was silent. All of the words seemed to leave him, leave his body, the anger extinguished as forcefully as it had started. Alfred had hardly noticed that he was shaking, that there were angry, frustrated tears streaking down his cheeks. They splattered the table haphazardly, creating a constellation on the polished wood that was barely used. No one had sat around that table for months. “But he loves me in a way that you can't. He gives me security that you can't. I love you, but I can't have anything to do with you if I don't want to get hurt. You're a _hazard_.”

Alfred was silent. Everything was silent. The city was silent, Arthur was silent. He couldn't hear his heart, nor his breathing. It was as if everything had stopped at that moment with a realisation he had tried to deny all this time. Whenever he had seen them together, told himself whatever story got him through the rest of the day. All the fantasies he had constructed in his mind were simultaneously ripped apart at the words so effortlessly spoken in that eloquent accent that proved to be the sweetest of poisons.  
  
“Please.” He wasn't even sure if he had said anything at this point. He wasn't sure if there was a difference between speaking and breathing and thinking. “Arthur, please. _Please_. Arthur, I love you. You know that.”  
He could hear a slight sniffle, the inhale and exhale of unaffected breath, the mundane placement of a porcelain cup on a wooden bench.  
  
“Please don't call again.”  
They both knew that he would. That within weeks, possibly days, the roles in this would have no meaning and while the Frenchman was away for his meetings, Alfred would fuck Arthur into the same mattress Arthur lied to Francis on, told the man he 'loved him' upon. He knew that within days, Arthur would call him and ask him to come and see him for this exact reason, that words would not be exchanged as they would kiss with enough force to draw blood and bruise and swell. That Arthur would beg, that they would go round after round after round until they could no longer feel anything. That their emotion would fuel their actions; anger, frustration, desperation. That Arthur would breathlessly plead for Alfred to fill him up, dig his nails into Alfred's skin and bite him until he bled, only for them to part ways within hours and pretend as if nothing ever was. But it always was. It always was.  
  
It was 5am, yet it felt like it had been hours more. It felt, as they both were silent on either end of the line, as if some unspoken barrier had been broken, as if they had both accepted the cycle that had been created.  
“I'm sorry.” He wasn't. Alfred knew he wasn't. “But please. _Don't_ call again.”  
He didn't; because he knew that within only a matter of time, Arthur would call him.

 

And he _always_ had the same reason.

 


	2. Alfred ☆ Thursday; 2am - ?.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred isn't surprised Arthur calls. He tells himself that he doesn't mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The second installment of this small project before I get back into writing long chapters.  
> If the request is high enough, I may continue this at a later date. However, for now, this shall remain at 2 chapters.  
> I hope you all enjoy, and as usual, kudos/comment/bookmark. It's very encouraging.  
> -  
> K

_"Hello?"_

A brief pause. Tense and almost unwilling. No dial tone cut-offs or further questioning.

 _"Come over."_ An address. _"We have the night."_

Another pregnant pause. Slight, forced hesitation. An already decided answer. Bitten nails down to the nub.

"Okay." A weakness. The nail bed blossomed ruby blood. "Give me 15."

 

☎♪♫♩

 

The drives were always silent, and that particular night the rain was seeping down his windshield and windows in little river-tracks, collecting up stray raindrops on their endeavours. Even the windscreen wipers seemed to be whispering compared to their usual comforting squeaking, and the radio had stopped working a few days prior. 15 minutes felt like an hour, and he knew that he ought to feel _something_ \- something akin to guilt, to doubt, to worry. He tried forcing it into his system, tried making himself feel any of these things, but all he could feel was a pin-prick of satisfaction, mixed in equal parts to desperation. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel and stopped at every set of lights, regardless of the late hour and seemingly emptied streets. That was unusual for this part of town - typically it was overflowing with human life at all times of the day. Instead, Alfred could almost pretend he was driving through a movie set, devoid of any inhabitance until the next scene was ready to be shot.

A left turn here. A right turn there. He'd been here before - twice, if he recalled correctly. Once for official business meetings, the other for the same reason he had come over at that moment. If he concentrated hard enough while looking up at the rows upon rows of hotel rooms, he could almost feel pity upon himself, at the situation at hand. Within seconds, that pity was gone, replaced with apathy and the drive to meet with another to achieve their common goal.

Alfred hadn't thought as far ahead as to bring along an umbrella, and by the time he was standing in the lobby his jacket was dripping water that was slowly soaking into the fabric. 'Water-resistant' his ass. He loitered a little. He didn't want to seem too overly anxious to get to the hotel room - more so to the person awaiting him than anyone else. He also didn't want to seem like he was too far into this to really pull himself out, not that he was sure he really wanted to. Ignorance was a strong point of his.

He easily finished a Hershey's bar before he started upon his ascent up the stairs. They smelt strongly of an orange cleaning chemical mixed with the underlying odour of piss. He was careful not to tread on any suspicious looking patches, his steps echoing up the stairwell as he counted the floors in his head.

 

1, 2, 3.

 

He passed a family; complete with their pull-along luggage and backpacks, a little girl with her mousy blonde hair and pink pyjamas carrying along a well-loved teddy bear. He spared them a glance before looking ahead. He tried not to think about the difference between the reason he was here and the reasons they had been here. He wondered if they were anywhere near the room he was going to. If they had been next door.

 

4, 5, 6.

 

He could hear muffled voices and television shows as he made his way up, occasionally briefly looking out the square windows to the darkening sky of the night, the stars twinkling resiliently. He remembered when they were able to be seen so much better. When they were brighter than any stars he had seen. Would he have done the same thing then as he was about to do now? Would he allow his pride to stoop to this level, one where he closed his eyes and pretended this wasn't how it was in the slightest?

 

7, 8.

 

Fifth door on the left. A nice, large suite compared to those he had passed on the lower floors. Bitterly, he complimented Francis' romantic choice in his head. Resentfully, he brought his hand up to knock three times on the door in rapid succession.

The door unlocked, yet wasn't opened. The hollow clicking noise was quiet enough for Alfred to hear, so he opened the door of the room and slipped in, closing it firmly behind him and putting the lock back into place. He noticed how the hotel's information card complete with picturesque smiling staff and customers was still hanging on the door knob, untouched. They hadn't been there long.

"You're 5 minutes late."

"I wasn't aware this was a _scheduled_ date." Alfred responded, turning on his heels. Arthur Kirkland had always had an appeal to him that Alfred seldom found attractive in other men. It was a sense of entitlement, the fact that he would never dream of sexing himself up before Alfred's arrival; the thought in itself was almost laughable. No, Arthur stood in the middle of the room, his hands crossed over his chest. He was clad in what he had obviously worn throughout the day; a navy sweater-vest, white dress shirt and a matching blue tie. He hadn't even loosened it up yet.

"It isn't anything of the sort, Alfred. I just thought you would have the _decency_ to keep to your word and set arrival times." Arthur stated, and Alfred shrugged nonchalantly, peeling off his damp jacket and placing it atop the umbrella stand. Arthur frowned at this but chose not to say anything, instead opting to hold up his gentlemanly debut. Alfred walked around the room, looking at the furniture and the small marks left behind from previous tenants, signifying their time here. He saw a book in French forgotten next to the couch. He didn't waste any time pushing it under the sofa with the toe of his shoe. "Would you like anything to drink?"

"No." Alfred responded shortly, looking up to see Arthur pick up his empty tea cup from earlier and head to the small kitchen, running the water. "You said we have the whole night, correct?"

"Yes. No rush. He comes back at 2pm tomorrow." Arthur responded from the kitchen, tension obvious in his shoulders. "I assure you, you will be gone by that time."

Alfred didn't comment any further, wiping a finger along the top of a cupboard to see the dust that collected on his skin from the gesture. It was a light layer - they took care of this place.

"Where do you suppose he is?" Alfred asked, aloof. He was interested in the answer to this question, to know if things had begun to fall apart - which they inevitably were going to, considering that Alfred and Arthur had been having an affair from the beginning of their (Francis' and Arthur's) relationship. Arthur seemed to believe that it would work out, even if only one person really was in love in the situation. Despite his expertise in many areas of life, the Brit could choose to be thick as shit sometimes. When he didn't like what he saw, he simply chose not to see it at all.

 

"I wouldn't have the slightest." Arthur admitted as he dried his hands on the towel, before moving to wipe them on his slacks. "Quite frankly, I'm not interested to know." Maybe he was doing the exact same thing as they were. Alfred wouldn't put it past Francis - he seemed to move on from partners faster than he moved on with the latest fashion trends. He'd never really disliked Francis until he had taken an interest in Arthur. Alfred didn't like anyone who was interested in Arthur. As far as he was concerned, he wanted to be the only one, selfish as it may be. Being selfish was something he couldn't really care less about. There were worse things one could be.

"A'course." Alfred mumbled in response, and Arthur didn't bother correcting him for once. Maybe he'd come to the conclusion that he was a lost cause. Or he was thinking of something else entirely. "We shouldn't be doing this." It was an obvious statement, spoken almost too casually to even come off as important. This is how it always went.

"I know." He didn't care though. Alfred couldn't find it in himself to either; he knew that no matter what, the night was going to end in a way both of them could easily predict. Like it had countless times before. The way it was supposed to; the way it was planned. "Did you bring things with you?" Always business. Arthur was always business. Between them, that's what it was now. A transaction. It always hurt his chest just that little bit, and he always tried his hardest to ignore it. When had it become so... _Toxic_? When had it degenerated to the point where Alfred was willing to allow Arthur to reduce him to a useless pile of resignation and abandon the pride he worked so hard to obtain?

"Yeah."

 

☎♪♫♩

 

It always seemed to escalate in ways that, when thinking back, Alfred would never understand and never fully be able to pin point. One moment they were standing apart as distant as they always seemed to be these days, the next, they were wrestling each other's clothes off and bruising their lips with intimacy that even lovers seldom saw.

Arthur seemed particularly enthusiastic that night. Rather than wait for the advances Alfred usually made, Arthur had slammed Alfred against the wall mid-conversation, a dull thud resonating throughout the hotel room. Alfred wondered absently what the neighbours thought was going on. A fight? It just as well be labelled as such. Sometimes, kissing Arthur felt like a punch in the mouth.  
  
He spared no moments to ensure those familiar lips were against his, kissing with the same amount of precision he put into his words and the force of pent up emotion he never ever dared let escape. It hurt, but Alfred _liked_ that. It would bruise, maybe even bleed, and their teeth were knocking together as they struggled to get closer than physically possible; but Alfred _loved_ that. He loved the fact that they had been practically reduced to bare instinct, to nothing but mere emotions guiding their actions. The words spoken during these times were the truest words exchanged between the pair. For a while, he was able to abandon his morals. For a while, he could take what he wanted. He could pretend. And _nothing_ could take that away from him.  
  
Most of the time, they didn't speak much, if at all, during these sessions. The air would be filled with moans rather than words, but Alfred figured that as soon as Arthur roughly bit down on his bottom lip and elicited a low, animal-like growl from Alfred, that this wasn't going to be the case that night. The American gritted his teeth as Arthur pulled away, his gaze unwavering and almost challenging. His typically light green irises had morphed into a much darker shade, one Alfred only saw when he was like this. The affections between them were never innocent or loving. They were violent; harsh. He missed that, though. _Innocence. Love._ God... he missed that so much. He would never admit it though, however. Never.  
  
“He hasn't even fucked you in this bed yet, has he?” Alfred said, a sly smirk adorning his features as the vulgar words left him. Arthur didn't respond, keeping him up against the wall with his daintier frame. Once, Alfred had curled up to that dainty frame whenever he had had a bad dream. Now, Alfred would wake up with sticky underwear and skin, to dreams about that body against his own, that accent, that mouth. The bad dreams had never gone away, either. “I'm going to fuck you on it before he even gets to. That's _fucking_ disgusting, Arthur.”  
He could see the Brit tense at his words, his jaw clenching as he tilted his chin up at the American indignantly. He was struggling to keep his cool. Especially with Alfred's thigh pressing up against his crotch. Alfred was liking this. Alfred was liking this _a lot_. And so was Arthur, judging by the bulge in his slacks. “He doesn't even satisfy you any more, does he? His gentle love-making.”  
“You have _no idea_ what you're talking about, Alfred.” Arthur snapped, slamming Alfred's shoulder against the wall behind him. The American laughed openly at this, despite the shot of pain that ran through him from the fierce contact.  
“Oh, but I _do_.” Alfred purred, leaning in. He was closer to Arthur now, and he knew Arthur could feel his breath on his neck. He knew it would raise the hairs and give him goosebumps all over his skin. He liked having this power over Arthur. He liked being in control, for once. “It doesn't take a genius to figure that one out, Arthur. If he satisfied you like I could, you wouldn't be getting hard _already_ like a fuckin' virgin.” Arthur's hand shot up and grabbed Alfred's chin roughly, digging his nails into it as his eyes narrowed.  
“Watch your mouth, _boy_.” Arthur growled, his voice lowering from his usual proper manner into something much more predatory. That was it. That was what Alfred had wanted, exactly.  
“Make me.” Alfred chided, leaning in an almost challenging manner, until their noses were practically touching. “It's all true, and you know it. The only one who knows how to satisfy you is me. I bet you even touch yourself to me when you're alone. And when he asks, you lie between your teeth, like you always do.”  
  
The resulting slap rung throughout the hotel room. It seemed louder than the banging against the wall that had occurred when Arthur had initiated their contact with a rough advance, Alfred's face having turned away from Arthur as his cheek throbbed due to the sudden, sharp contact. He could feel his cheek burning, and he looked at Arthur, all remaining playfulness now dropped from his expression and replaced with something much darker. Anger. Anger, and possessiveness.  
“You shouldn't have done that.” Alfred put his hand up to his cheek, checking if Arthur had split the side of his lip in the process. The Brit stood tall. He never faltered. The sign of a good fighter, a good nation. Someone to be feared. But god, Alfred didn't fear him. No, not anymore.  
  
“You have much too big an ego for a quick-fuck.” Arthur retorted. Alfred never had gotten used to hearing him swear with that thick accent. “I needed to take you down a couple of notches.”  
“A quick-fuck? Arthur, a quick-fuck doesn't last for hours. And it certainly doesn't happen over and over and over for months on end.” Alfred snorted, pushing Arthur backwards with a gentle shove to the shoulder to get him moving. Arthur took a stumbling step backwards. “But say I am just a booty-call. That would say much, much more about you and the state of your sex and love-life than it would about me.”  
“What? That you're cheap, easy, and cock-slut? I raised you better--”  
Alfred grabbed Arthur by the tie, pulling him towards him again until their chests were flush against each other.  
“Me? _Easy?_ I wasn't the one who, within only a few hours of getting into a relationship, was riding _my cock_ for two hours _on end_.” Alfred hissed, and Arthur's cheeks flushed with red. He didn't back down, though. His gaze was unwavering. We couldn't have that, now, could we?  
  
Alfred used the leverage he had on Arthur through the grip on his tie to push him back until the back of his knees hit the edge of the bed. Alfred let go of the Brit's tie in favour of placing both hands on his clothed chest and shoving him down onto the mattress, a dull thump audible to the two secret lovers.  
Their lips were together, again, then.  
The kiss was rough and angry and Arthur grabbed Alfred's hair rough enough that the American felt some strands snap under the strain. He pulled Arthur closer as he sunk his nails into his exposed skin, shoved his palm unceremoniously against the forming bulge in the Brit's slacks. It wasn't that hard to get Arthur hot and bothered. Alfred had enough experience to know what strings to pull, just what to do to get him to the point where he was breathing harder, his face flushed with a blush and his lips swollen. In the beginning of their messy affair, Alfred had been so set on doing everything perfect; perfect kisses, perfect movements. Now, it was anything but. The kisses were sloppy and unpractised, their movements far from dainty and sensual and downright demanding for attention, for contact. When Alfred slept with others, it wasn't the same. It was never the same. _No one was the same as Arthur._  
  
The Brit hooked his leg around Alfred's hip, shoving away Alfred's hand in favour to grind against the American's crotch. Alfred let out a low growl, pulling away from the kiss to roughly bite at Arthur's neck. He wasn't allowed to do this, usually. It left marks that Arthur couldn't explain away, or had to cover up with layers of makeup. But Arthur made no effort to stop him as he sunk his teeth into the pale flesh until he could taste blood, sucking in time to the rocks of their hips to an unheard rhythm. Pulling away, the bruise was deep plum; speckles of blood had made it through to the surface of Arthur's skin, and Alfred grinned, finding himself trailing his tongue over it to collect the little drops.

  
“You fuckin' idiot – He's going to see that--”  
“Don't you think he has the right to know his dearly beloved has been opening his legs throughout the whole time you've been together?”  
Arthur wasn't happy at that statement. His palm met with the American's jugular. Alfred wasn't expecting the blow, letting out a gasp as air escaped him. Arthur used this to his advantage and pushed the American boy down onto the bed, straddling his hips and wrapping one hand around his neck. He squeezed, his teeth grinding and his jaw clenched. Alfred felt his airways cut off.  
  
“He gives me more than you could ever dream of giving me.” Arthur spat out. “You're not even in my league. Everyone knows that. You're insignificant. You're just another _whore_.” Arthur let go of Alfred's neck when the nation's face was flushed with red, the American glaring angrily up at him. He was panting to try and regain what breath he had lost, his lungs screaming bloody murder at him.  
“Keep telling yourself, that, Arthur. But we both know who you think about when you're fucking yourself on your fingers. And it isn't that fucking French _fuck._ ” Alfred grinned smugly, and Arthur let out a snort of disbelief. It was Arthur's turn now to lean in, resting his elbows on Alfred's chest and leaning in close to his face. Alfred could feel Arthur grinding his ass down on his cock, and he rolled his hips up in vulgar, non-verbal response.  
“I bet it rubs you the wrong way to know that while you're at home with your left hand, I'm being fucked into the mattress by a man who will always be more than _twice_ the man you ever could be.” He breathed, and Alfred's eyes narrowed, his hips roughly bucking up against Arthur. The Brit's lips parted as he moaned, his eyes closing momentarily to revel in the feeling and the anticipation of what was to come. Alfred grabbed Arthur and managed to push him down again, switching up their positions and starting to shamelessly rut against his counterpart, roughly holding his chin and tilting his face up to look at Alfred.  
  
“You don't ever shut the fuck up, do you?” Alfred spoke through gritted teeth, and Arthur had the nerve to laugh. “Constantly... constantly having to reassure yourself. Speaks volumes in itself.” He leaned down and bit down on Arthur's bottom lip, pulling it roughly until the Brit was wincing with pain. He could feel him buck against Alfred, and he grinned. Arthur liked pain. He liked being treated roughly. And Alfred had enough pent up anger and negative emotion to be more than happy to oblige.  
  
He didn't exactly remember when their clothes had been peeled off and discarded haphazardly; the both of them now clad only in their undergarments as the wrestled for dominance, their kisses sloppy and careless as their hands roamed, groped and scratched exposed skin. Alfred had managed to bite him again and again, leaving his marks on the plush, white English body that he was oh so addicted to. Arthur cursed him out, but moaned upon the feeling of getting marked up. He had always been a hypocrite.  
Alfred had Arthur pinned, his stomach against the mattress and his ass facing upwards as Alfred rolled his hips over and over against it, the cloth preventing proper contact. Arthur was moaning now, his noises purely erotic as he bit down on his palm to muffle the noises. Alfred yanked his hand away and pinned it behind his back.  
“I wanna hear you.”  
“Want to. T-the proper--”  
“Shut the fuck up.” Alfred bucked, and Arthur let out a needy whine, his eyes closing and his back arching a little into the mattress. “Or you don't get anything from me.” That surely shut him up. Despite the fact that Arthur was mouthy beyond reason, he knew that Alfred was serious about that threat. And he knew that even though he was most likely going to call Alfred in for another such arrangement in the near future, he also knew he would not get this calibre of sex until they crossed paths again. Arthur almost felt guilty. He couldn't find it in him.  
  
Alfred was impatient. He'd always been, and now was no exception. He yanked down Arthur's underwear to expose his ass, hands instantly moving down to grope the two plush domes, digging his nails roughly into them. Arthur let out a small whimper of delight, pressing back into the contact. Arthur had such a cute ass. It was small, but round as all hell. Alfred hadn't found someone with an ass he liked more than Arthur, especially when his dick was in it.  
“Stop p-playing around and get to it, you-- you wankstain--” Arthur suddenly grunted, grinding his hips down into the mattress. Alfred frowned. Arthur was in no position to talk to him in such a manner. His palm came down harshly onto Arthur's cheek, the Brit letting out a cry of surprise and pleasure as a red mark of a hand bloomed, Alfred running his fingers over the sensitive skin. He wasted no time bringing his hand down on the other, Arthur shamelessly starting to rut his hips. Alfred was sure his eyes were closed, and his cheeks were flushed with that gentle pink that he always got during sex. He slapped him again, and Arthur let out another cry, jolting in pain. 4, 5, 6. 6 was a good number. 6 was how many months Arthur had been dating Francis, and Alfred had been fucking him behind the scenes. Arthur was shaking ever so slightly, and Alfred took a moment to massage his ass after such a harsh beating. While he wasn't as romantic and loving as Francis, he wasn't a complete asshole. He knew there were lines you couldn't cross, and not taking care of your partner – even if it's not your partner, but your sexual partner in which you are having sex with behind said partner's actual lover-partner – was something that you couldn't do.  
  
After Arthur seemed to relax a little, Alfred started to prepare him. Despite how often and how much Arthur probably had sex – with Alfred, Francis, and God knows who else (Alfred hoped it was only them two, but if he was willing to cheat on Francis with Alfred, who was stopping him from cheating on Francis with other people too?) - he was always, always tight. It was impressive, really. And Arthur never would admit it, but he loved being fingered. His breathing would hitch and deepen, his forehead would rest on the mattress as he tried to keep himself as relaxed as possible, and his thighs would tremble ever so slightly. Small sounds of pleasure would always escape his lips at this time. Alfred loved them. Alfred loved all the sounds Arthur made during sex. It was a side of Arthur that never seemed to become boring to him. It was all so exotic. So... forbidden. He was having something that wasn't his, and he didn't care.  
Arthur's sweet spot was always easy to find. Maybe it was because he had practically memorised where it was by this time; either way, by the time Alfred was in till his knuckle with two fingers crooked ever so slightly, the Brit jerked a little, grabbing onto the sheets and letting out a low moan. “T-there.” He mumbled, and Alfred respond with another thrust in, directly aimed at his prostate. It wasn't long now. He was practically dripping in anticipation to thrust inside. He didn't rush it, however. He knew he had to stretch Arthur proper, or risk him never ever talking to Alfred afterwards. He didn't want that to happen again.  
  
Arthur was already a groaning and squirming mess by the time Alfred had deemed him ready, pulling out his fingers and wiping them on the bed beside him. He grabbed Arthur's hips, coaxing him to turn around so he would be on his back, grabbing his legs and getting him into a better position. He got a good look at his face, then, and it nearly took his breath away.  
His cheeks were adorned with a gentle dusting of a red blush, his lips swollen pink. He had slight tear trails down his cheeks, and Alfred reached out compulsively to rub them away with his thumb. He didn't ask. Arthur hadn't used the safe word. The Brit smiled a little at him for this small gesture, and before he could say anything, Alfred thrusted inside with one movement. He watched as Arthur's head tilted back and his lips parted, his eyes closing tightly as he let out a sound of surprise, his grip on Alfred tightening. He could feel his nails digging painfully into his back, and it took every ounce of willpower Alfred had not to start moving. He gritted his teeth, finding himself at the wall behind the bed as he waited for Arthur to give the OK to move, his eyes falling on a small portrait painting of Mary. He nearly laughed at the irony.  
  
“Move.” The word broke Alfred out of his thoughts, looking down to meet Arthur's eyes which were already trained on his face. His expression remained unreadable as he shifted for more stability before he started to move. He always started slowly, despite what he wanted. Although he didn't bottom often – Arthur enjoyed it much more – he knew it was taxing and quite difficult. He quickly built up, however, small movements becoming rough thrusts, Arthur clinging onto Alfred and moaning all the while, curses spilling out from his lips as Alfred aimed and hit his prostate with every move. He grabbed a fistful of Alfred's hair and pulled roughly, Alfred's breath hitching ever so slightly at the sensation. Arthur looked good. Arthur looked like an angel. Something he couldn't ever have. Alfred watched as he slid in and out of Arthur over and over, the sound of skin making contact with skin filling the room, accompanied with a symphony of pants, groans, and mutterings of words. Arthur would never groan Alfred's name. Alfred would pretend not to notice. There was still tension and frustration in the air. It never really went away. Even when they were both at the peak of intimacy, sharing sweat and pressed skin on skin, there was something... something there that hadn't been there before. Then again, he hadn't been fucking Arthur before the revolution.  
  
He gritted his teeth, shifting Arthur's legs up a little more and feeling himself thrust in deeper, Arthur letting out a cry and his back arching deliciously. Alfred could feel Arthur tightening around him, signifying that he was getting close. Alfred groaned lowly, pushing himself to go rougher, faster, his breathing erratic as he tried to push Arthur into completion, knowing that he was nearing orgasm too.  
  
When Arthur came, Alfred would always watch. It was one of his favourite things – seeing the gentleman facade fall away as his eyebrows furrowed, his lips parted as he was being pounded into, his face an expression of pure ecstasy. Pink flushed his skin on his chest and parts of his thighs as his body flushed with heat, cum spilling between the both of them and onto their chests. It practically blended into Arthur's pale skin, yet was all too noticeable on Alfred's more tan complexion.  
Alfred followed suit soon after, spilling himself deep inside of Arthur, riding out his orgasm as he felt wave after wave of pleasure hit him, gripping onto Arthur hard enough to bruise. It was only after he had come down from his high that he noticed something.  
Arthur had moaned his name. After the countless times they'd fucked, and the countless times he never uttered anything of the sort; Arthur had came with his name on his lips.  
The American panted, having collapsed on top of Arthur, his face buried in the crook of his neck as he felt himself come down from the high of orgasm, his eyes closing.  
It was a few minutes before the silence was broken by a voice.  
  
“You didn't use a condom.” Arthur's voice was hoarse, his tone flat. An observation. Not a question.  
“No, I didn't.” Alfred responded, his own voice muffled by Arthur's skin. There was another pause, and he felt Arthur shift ever so slightly. He could feel the cum between them.  
“Why? You always use one.”  
“Why did you moan my name?” Alfred was quick to interrupt. His question was followed by a silence, a silence that felt all too familiar and rubbed him in all the wrong ways. “Why did you moan my name?” He repeated himself, his voice slightly more forceful as he found himself sitting up and looking down at the disheveled Arthur. He looked more tired than anything. If he wasn't so confused, and if he wasn't just Arthur's affair, he would've settled down beside him and enjoyed his company. A few kisses and cuddles before sleep.  
“I didn't.” _What a fucking liar._  
“You did.” Alfred's eyes narrowed. “You moaned my name, Arthur.”  
“I did no such thing.” Arthur was the one to sit up now, running a hand through his messy hair. “Stop being childish.” And again with the 'childish' card. He  _hated_ that stupid statement.  
“How about _you_ stop being childish?” Alfred's voice raised in volume, something he hadn't expected of himself, and Arthur's eyes widened, taken aback by the sudden change in atmosphere. But Alfred wasn't done. “And while you're at it, how about you stop being so fucking selfish, too?”  
“Do not dare lecture me on being selfish Alfred--”  
“Oh ho ho, me? Compared to you, I'm a _fucking_ saint! You can't just have a perfect, lovely relationship with Francis and then fuck me on the side like some sort of toy! You don't even love him, Arthur! You're only in it because it makes you look good. You feel like you're worth something, so you let him get all over you. And then when he isn't good enough, you call me to come over and make you feel validated.” Alfred sneered, his eyes narrowed and his teeth practically bared. “You don't love Francis. You don't love anyone but yourself, Arthur. Yourself, and what other people think of you. And do you want to know what I think of you?” Alfred got off the bed, grabbing Arthur's discarded clothes and throwing them at him before he grabbed his own, starting to pull them up and on haphazardly without a second thought. “I think that you're a sour, selfish, greedy, egotistical, and conceited old man who only cares about his own wants and needs, and doesn't care who gets hurt in the process.” He couldn't stop now. His words were flowing out without him even thinking about it, and Arthur seemed absolutely stunned, looking upon Alfred as if he had grown a second head. “I think that you don't care if other people feel things for you. It's irrelevant unless you want something from them, isn't it?” Alfred was practically jumping into his clothes, not even bothering to do up his shirt and throwing his jacket over, zipping it up. “I hope he sees those bruises, I hope he catches on. I hope your little arrangement and fantasy fucks up and he dumps you because he realises how shallow you really are, Arthur. You can't just play people like that and expect them not to care or notice.” He shoved his tie into his pocket, and Arthur just looked at him, his expression unreadable. Alfred didn't know how to feel about that. “Stop using my feelings against me for your benefit, Arthur. I hurt you. But I didn't keep on doing it over, and over. I hurt you, but I didn't want to. So why do you keep insisting on hurting me?” His shoulders slumped and Alfred sighed.  
“ _Alfred_ \--”  
“Save it.” Alfred put up his hand to shut Arthur up, his lips pursed. He shook his head as if to dismiss something. “ _Don't_ call me again, Arthur.”

  
He didn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3


	3. Arthur ★ Tuesday; 10pm - ?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> History will always repeat itself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a ton of requests, I've decided to add a couple more chapters for those interested. I hope they are up to par.  
> As always, comments and such are always greatly appreciated. Love you all.  
> \- K

 If there ever had been such thing as an old soul, Arthur was sure that he definitely fit the criteria.

Although he was youthful in appearance, the nation was anything but. While his body and mind had yet to decay, he knew there were no doubt other parts of him that had. He knew that time had not been kind to him in the regards to his being - he was no longer so open, no longer able to express his emotions as he once was. It was no excuse, of course. He didn't care to make such things as excuses.  
He had simply built up a shell over time. Calcified with past mistakes that could have been avoided if he had not been naive and forgiving.  
Part of him wished for a sliver of naivety back. Ignorance that had allowed him bliss for a while. Bliss was hard to come by nowadays. He wasn't sure if that was because of the times, or because he no longer was the man - or nation, for that matter, - that he used to be, upon a time.  
  
Breaking things off with Francis was far from devastating for either party. He'd known that Francis was slowly losing interest in him, and he was pretty sure the Frenchman had gotten past the honeymoon phase and seen that the Englishman wasn't as invested in their arrangement as he ought to be. It wasn't as if Arthur didn't _want_ to be invested in their relationship, it's just he found that... He simply _couldn't_ be. As much as he knew Francis was a good partner for him in many aspects, and as much as he appreciated and loved him as a friend, such love refused to germinate into anything more than something platonic and appreciative. He was good in bed, he was good on dates, he was good at everything - but that's just how it was. Good. Nothing more, nothing less. Nothing the Frenchman had done had rekindled anything inside of Arthur except restlessness and a childlike boredom.  
Francis hadn't been angry. Of course, a little upset. But within a day, the Frenchman seemed to get over the heartbreak and was back on his feet. Arthur knew he ought to feel something - guilt, maybe. But as with many emotions, it simply wasn't there to be felt.  
Maybe he was selfish, after all. Selfish, self centred and egotistical. Most probably. It seemed as if it came with time. Of course, once again, it was no excuse.  
  
He didn't call Alfred again; just as the American boy - that's really what he was, a boy - had requested him not to. It wasn't out of wanting to honour his request – more so he didn't exactly know what to say. Alfred had probably heard of the break up, and Arthur himself was quite surprised that the American had yet to contact him with a smugness that always seemed to get underneath Arthur's skin. Instead, Arthur was greeted with unusually dead phone lines, and his fingertips drumming aimlessly on the counter as he contemplated a battle he knew had already been won.  
He hadn't heard from Alfred since the last time they had shared a bed. Since the American tossed his clothes at him in a fit of rage, all the while showering him with... Well. What could be described as truths, he supposed.  
It really was then, as he watched the American leave, that he realised that what once was seen to be Arthur Kirkland was no more. And that he was, truly, a heartless, cold bastard who was playing a game to try and get on top. He was trying to feel something - so desperately that it was damaging those he cared for. Those that, no matter how insufferable they could be at times, were all he really had. And he had just watched what had been making him feel in so many different senses of the word walk out the door with hatred and iciness radiating from the usually charismatic, bright, and bold, personality.  
Alfred had something - be it stubbornness or pure stupidity - that Arthur had grown to be envious of. He still had a sprinkle of youth about him - a sweet ignorance. He was still willing to open up to people to some extent. He was still willing to act as a breath of fresh air in a room that had long since gone stale. Poetic or not, Alfred got on his nerves. But Arthur couldn't help to admire him.  
Admire what? He wasn't too sure.  
He would never dream to admit it. He hated smugness, though Alfred had plenty to be smug about.  
  
Months passed. And for a reason unbeknownst to him, Arthur found himself waiting for a call that never came. It was as if Alfred had disappeared off the face of the earth - the silence from the American was eerie at best. He had always made an effort to have some sort of presence - but the abandonment of such so suddenly was akin to going cold turkey on a drug he had been addicted to for years.  
Was he being ignored?  
He wondered what was going through that idiot's head. He didn't need to guess when it came to how the American felt, though. Heartbroken? Maybe. Hurt, definitely. Deeply so. Used, tossed aside, discarded. And rightfully so. Rightfully so.

 

Arthur couldn't concentrate.  
Today was worse than usual - he had tried to do paperwork, tried to do something somewhat productive like cross stitching, or studying one of the numerous books he had on his list. But as soon as he tried to put his mind to something, he found himself drifting; his mind wasn't able to settle on a singular task, always wandering back and fourth - over-analysing the past – as if it could be changed in some way -- in a manner that could almost be considered frantic.  
After he exhausted all avenues, he settled heavily into a dining room chair with a dog-eared book he had picked up some days ago, and a cup of tea. As he attempted to absorb himself into the pages and the lives of the characters dictated by every line, he found it was quiet. Too quiet for his liking. Usually, the subtle hums from a busy London right outside his apartment walls and the ticking of the clock were enough to suffice; on occasion, a radio playing classical melodies would be put on softly as he bustled about with his day-to-day passing of time. However, something wasn't able to settle within him - no matter what he did to distract and occupy himself, no matter how many pages he half-heartedly scanned through, none of the words really translated.

He found himself four chapters ahead with no idea what was going on - nor who any of the new characters were. The silence - the background noise was like a deafening static and it felt as if it were driving him mad. Each tick of the clock that usually resulted in something of solace was instead almost maddening, the classical music seemingly muffled and muddled and clunky in all the wrong ways, the instruments slightly out of tune and too twangy; the voices and sounds of a bustling city all blurring together in an obnoxious mush of urban sound. Rather than comforting, he found it created the perfect symphony to drive any man mad.

 

As he excused himself from an empty table in an empty dining room, he couldn't help but think that maybe this was but just a precursor for what was to come. Maybe he was just meant to go mad. To just snap. Maybe he was ought to be alone. Bitter, and angry, and waiting by a phone for a call that part of him knew wouldn't come; and part of him clung onto with a hint of naivety. A hope that was dwindling into something so scarce that he knew it would all too easily slip right through one's fingers.

It was when he was slipping on a far too old winter coat for a far too cold evening, that he realised that Alfred was a needle in a haystack - and that he was gripping at straws.

 

☎♪♫♩

 

Even though the cold was the sort of cold that nipped at your skin right to the bone (and that his winter coat wasn't really doing anything to dull the feeling of oncoming hypothermia) the neon lights that scattered themselves along the streets advertising the sins of humankind provided something like a familiar warmth within the pit of Arthur's stomach. Or maybe that was the alcohol – he had long since forgotten how to tell the difference between the two. He would've thought that over time he would grow to be able to distinguish the difference – but he supposed loneliness had dumbed him down.  
  
Arthur wasn't surprised when he heard the familiar patter of rain starting to spit down onto the concrete before he felt it hit him, the drops fat and running down his neck and into his clothing. He didn't know where he was going, or what he was looking for – he had set out without a real plan. On a whim, really. All he really knew was that he was searching for something to keep his mind occupied for the night. He had been wandering the streets for the afternoon, loitering and looking through shop windows, drinking innumerable Styrofoam cups of tea, and smoking innumerable cigarettes in order to keep himself somewhat entertained. A couple of drinks aided him into the gradual slip of evening to night, a darker sky blanketing around him in an almost suffocating manner. Despite being surrounded by people, he still felt isolated – it was as if they were just spectres in a world long since abandoned; and that he was the only real person left. The label of person was of course applied loosely to him – he didn't feel like much of anything at all. Just cold, a little bit drunk, and bitter. Foolish, and more naïve than he had ever been.

 

By the time he stepped foot indoors once again, his blonde hair had matted to his forehead and taken to framing his face; droplets of rainwater cascading down his rigid features and onto the floor. His arrival went unannounced, unnoticed as he walked through the dimmed establishment to a bar that seemed familiar, yet he knew for certain that he hadn't ever been to before. All bars were starting to look the same at this point, and every bartender seemed all too much like an old friend he had forgotten about and as a result couldn't pin just where he knew them from.  
He licked his dried lips – they were cracked and chapped, and he wondered why anyone would want to kiss them. He wouldn't have blamed someone for being deterred from him after just taking a look at them.  
Asking for a drink, the music seemed muddled and all to dull as he occupied himself by reading incoherent labels and watching the nameless around him interact with one another. Did they even know simple things about one another? Names, ages, jobs... Or was that not important? It had been a while since he had tried to meet someone new – with friendly intentions or otherwise. He felt as if he was growing too old, in some way he wasn't able to shake off.  
He swallowed a little too deeply, throat coating with a liquid that felt like flames biting at his insides. He watched as the few lights bathed the figures who seemed all to unearthly, unreal. It was almost bitterly ironic that he had walked into a gay bar by an off chance. The shadows that accompanied the illumination only seemed to accentuate the facial features of those he looked at, making them look like ghostly caricatures of who they really were. Elongated, distorted, hidden. As they weaved in and out of the crowd, some more gracefully and coherent than others, they were enveloped by the darkness and disappeared from Arthur's sight, if only momentarily until they bobbed up in another part of the crowd. He couldn't help but wonder how many of these men would return to a cleverly constructed life in the morning; continue their jobs, see their spouses. No doubt some of these men were just as vile as he was, and didn't mind hurting others in order to satisfy their own questionable need to validate themselves.  
  
Arthur nearly dropped his glass upon being suddenly pulled from his contemplations and observations by an unfamiliar voice, and a subsequent person taking purchase on a seat next to him.  
He looked over to the man, his brows furrowing as he blinked at him, blankly. Man? He wasn't sure if that was an appropriate term to describe him. He looked too young to be here – they had asked for I.D upon entry, hadn't they?  
“What was that?” Arthur asked, his voice's volume dwarfed by the deep bass that throbbed through the building. He was somewhat grateful. His voice was hoarser than he would've wished.  
“I said,” the man started as he began to repeat himself, a smile gracing his boyish face, “I said, you look like you had to swim to get here.”  
It was such a childish statement, and ordinarily, Arthur would have snorted at the man and turned back to his drink, yet it was... alluring, in a way that Arthur was choosing not to question at that moment. The man was indeed still quite young – perhaps in his twenties, Arthur hoped – with wavy dark chocolate hair, and big blue eyes framed with dramatically thick black lashes. Big, big, _blue eyes._ They felt as if they were dipping into him, looking right past whatever he had put up to protect himself. Before he could think any better of himself and the conversation, he found himself compelled to respond.  
  
“What gave it away?”  
  
The young man laughed, his laugh light and carefree. It was if he hadn't a care in the world, as if he had nothing to lose and didn't really expect anything to be gained.  
  
He reminded him, painfully so, of... Alfred.  
  
The man ordered himself a drink, and Arthur ordered himself something a little bit stronger. He prided himself on his manners, and didn't want to walk out so abruptly after initiating a conversation. Plus, it would be outright lying if he were to say he wasn't at least a bit interested by the situation unfolding. Why a man, such as the one opposite him, would approach him – out of anyone else at the bar. Him, a weathered man who seemed to be too old for his body, with an aura of bitterness about him.  
“Kaleb.” The man introduced himself after sipping at his drink. “What about you?” He asked, tilting his head in curiosity, resting an elbow on the bar as he watched Arthur with interest. There was something about him. An interwoven masculinity with softness. He seemed as if he would have the same subtle curves that Alfred's body donned. The ghost of hips, a small layer of baby fat that padded his body and gave into perfect, plump thighs and a rounded ass.  
He looked away.  
  
“Uh,” Arthur started, before he cleared his throat all too awkwardly. “Arthur. I'm Arthur.”  
Kaleb laughed once again, and Arthur couldn't help himself from leaning forward as he was enticed to look back at the brunette. That laugh was addictive, enticing. It sounded like part of him was being revived every time he heard it – the part that had long since disappeared. He knew it wasn't a case of finding his long lost soul mate.  
It was a case of having found what was good – no, perfect -, letting it go, and finding something that was a suitable replacement.  
“Well, 'Uh Arthur'.” He said, grinning widely, as he placed a hand on Arthur's knee, in a manner that seemed almost flirtatious. He didn't jerk away, though he thought about it. The man leaned forward. “How about we step outside, so we can talk a little better?” He had such pink lips. Arthur felt as if he had a lump stuck in his throat, yet he nodded.  
“That sounds like a good idea.” Arthur mumbled, quite sure the boy wasn't able to pick up on his exact words but knew his renewed intentions. He slid a few bills across the counter for his drinks, covering Kaleb's costs while he was at it as he stood up from the stool. Kaleb followed suit, a contrast to the Brit with his hands in his jeans pockets casually as opposed to Arthur's rigid posture. He felt so self aware, and he hated it. He felt like a young girl around a schoolboy crush – and it made his cheeks flush. He had to pull himself together. Get over this slump of being so painfully awkward.  


The air from outside bit at his skin as they stepped into the night. It hadn't stopped raining just yet, and the temperature had dropped another couple of degrees. He fished out a half finished packet of cigarettes, offering one to Kaleb. When the younger man took one, he felt almost disgusted and disappointed. Such an attractive young man ought not to poison his lungs with carcinogens. However, before he could let himself delve into negativity towards the man's behaviours, he forced himself to inhale the very same smoke he was condemning another over. He was a hypocrite – arguably, the world's biggest.  
“Thanks,” Kaleb's voice was much more interesting when the club's boisterous music wasn't pumping through the air and Arthur's eardrums. It had a cute twang to it, and tragically, for Arthur, he realised that that twang was that of an American. He ought to have guessed, considering the fates had a thing for fucking him over as of recent. It was an extra kick to the ribs while he was down, and as if to stick it right back to whatever sadistic metaphor was pushing and pulling things into and out of place, he shot a smile (or something like it) towards the boy. Smiling felt foreign, and he couldn't remember the last time he had done such a thing. His muscles felt too tense in the wrong places, and he wouldn't have held it against Kaleb if he would have recoiled in horror.  
“How old are you?” Arthur asked, tapping away ashes from the butt of his cigarette. A few managed to get on his skin, and he went to rub it away, only succeeding in rubbing ash into his skin. He didn't know what else he had expected from such a movement. Kaleb laughed.  
“21.” He was barely legal in the States. As much as it felt wrong, Arthur couldn't help the feeling of... interest that peaked within him.  
“You're young. You shouldn't be hanging around places like this.” Arthur murmured, and Kaleb smirked, leaning against the bricks. The fabric of his shirt caught on the texture ever so slightly, and Arthur had to fight the urge to reach over and touch his tshirt; feel it between his fingertips.  
“What, and you should be? How old are you, then?” Kaleb raised a brow, his question challenging him playfully. Arthur took his time to respond, his eyes returning to what lay ahead of him, rather than beside him.  
“I'm 30.” Something like that. He wanted to see Kaleb recoil, he wanted to see something. A reaction. He wondered if Kaleb would believe him – he knew that he could easily pass for being within his twenties. After all, that's when his body stopped maturing and settled upon all those years ago.  
To his disdain and dismay (rather, his interest and, in a strange way, arousal) the boy put the borrowed cigarette between his pink, plump lips and inhaled it deeply. “Too old for you.”  
“I wouldn't say that.” Kaleb responded almost immediately. Arthur could feel his blue eyes on him, and he closed his own. He could almost pretend that gaze was someone else's.  
“I would.” Arthur retorted, his tone emotionless. “You ought to be spending your time doing something else. Not wasting it around the sorts that linger here. Places like this are for ugly, old men who are lonely.” Arthur dropped the cigarette to the pavement, and he watched it sizzle out upon contact with the rainfall. Kaleb didn't respond, a small smile on his features as he watched Arthur. The stare was almost unnerving. He met Kaleb's gaze as the shorter, younger male seemed to ghost over to him. Their forms practically touching. Arthur could feel the warmth radiating from his body, and he closed his eyes again. He could hear the rain combined with the sound of Kaleb's soft breaths and the seemingly distant sound of heavy, dirty music.  
“I like ugly, old, lonely men.” Kaleb murmured, and Arthur felt their thighs touch. It felt almost as if electricity was shooting through him. He couldn't decide whether or not he liked it or not. “They're so much more... experienced in life. And I have a lot to learn, I'm afraid.” Kaleb's voice was close. Arthur felt his breath, and he tilted his face away. He didn't know why – his own actions felt foreign. He didn't feel as if he was really in control of himself any more. “You should teach me.”  


Arthur hated himself. He hated Kaleb. He hated the bar. He hated how nostalgic he was. He hated that he was turned on at that moment – so easily. He hated that he could so easily pretend it was Alfred. He hated that Kaleb didn't mind that Arthur was impatient, that his body was so deprived of intimacy that he was disgustingly vulgar. He hated that Kaleb was so enticing, that those blue eyes served as an aphrodisiac. They were a different blue from Francis' eyes. They were Alfred's blue. Alfred's blue eyes, Alfred's annoying accent, Alfred's calling out of his name. Alfred's inexperience, Alfred's pale skin and pink lips, Alfred's slight boyish curves. Alfred's anger during sex, Alfred's clawing at him and pulling him closer and pushing him away, Alfred's begging and whimpering as Arthur filled him like no one else could. He hated fucking Kaleb into the mattress that countless people probably had done similar things upon. He hated Kaleb being okay with being Alfred for a night – Alfred, inexperienced Alfred, the naïve Alfred, innocent Alfred, an Alfred, a version of Alfred that still needed Arthur, that still wanted him. The version of Alfred that haunted him. That fucking plagued his dreams, that held him hostage, the version he yearned for. The Alfred that he had forsaken, taken for granted, thrown away. Abused, used. The Alfred that he had tried to force into becoming a little too much like Arthur – emotionally distant. Hungry for validation, for feeling wanted and needed, and powerful. As Kaleb's identity became an afterthought, replaced with the hopeful fantasy of a blonde on the other side of the world, Arthur hated how he couldn't stop. How one round wasn't enough. He was disgusting and vile, but he couldn't find it within himself to care as Kaleb's youthfulness fuelled his libido. He had a weakness; a weakness that he despised. Alfred. It became almost a second language consisting of his name, solely.

 _Alfred, Alfred, Alfred._ Arthur hated Alfred. He hated him with every fibre of his being.

And most of all, Arthur hated that he didn't.


	4. Arthur ★ Monday; 9am ☎ Alfred ☆ Monday; 12pm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The concept of self control is laughable; and very merely just that - a concept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter featuring both our babes. Thank you all for your continued response. I hope this chapter is okay.  
> -K

It was almost heartbreakingly ironic.     
The unsurprising revelation came upon Arthur as he found himself on a speeding train towards the next meeting consisting of the nations of the world; the blond busying himself through feigning interest in what was supposed to be an attempt at sorting through the numerous files that lived within his ancient briefcase.    
Like Romeo and Juliet – no, no. Who was he kidding? It was nothing like that of the story featuring two stupid young lovers whom had met their demise through irrational thought and the all too human mistake of forgetting that death wasn't a solution – rather, a permanent band-aid for a temporary wound. No, Romeo and Juliet had a tragic sort of beauty to it. As stupid as it was, it's idiocy and childishness paled in comparison to that of his own situation. Arthur wasn't in the habit of pitying himself. He knew that what he was faced with on the daily was the all too real consequence of his own past actions. Actions he had been completely aware of, and that he had had complete control over. He couldn't even say that he hadn't thought it through – he had done, many times over. He had known that there was always going to be a risk that his recklessness and selfishness would come back to bite him hard in the ass. And it had been foolish to think otherwise. But if anything, Arthur was a master at deception – especially when it came to deception of the self.    
 

It had been months since he had last heard any word concerning the whereabouts and condition of the American nation; while he would know all too well of what unfolded within the country itself, through watching whatever was being reported on concerning the United States while drinking his morning cups of coffee. One would most likely find it odd that a British man was so adamant on knowing the state of a country he ought not to really care about – with numerous tabs opened up on his computer featuring popular news websites that he would refresh at least once a day to drink in and decipher what he could about the state of America. While it wasn't _America_  America, it was the corresponding landmass, so he supposed it was the closest he was going to get.    
He knew he could easily have, within the months, attempted to contact the American man through a phone call or even an email, however he couldn't really... find it within himself to do such a thing. It felt intrusive. And as much as Arthur told himself he didn't care and that he ought to have the right to know, he couldn't bring himself to really believe such a thought process. While he was generally perceived as a narcissist, the Brit knew he really didn't deserve much. If anything. Much less, closure.    
But while he tried to tide himself over and stop the itching at his palms to damn his own sense of pride and just _call the fucking guy already_ , he had fallen into... rather an idiotic, childish, humiliating predicament. He knew that if Alfred knew, that it would serve to do nothing but prove the American's final words towards Arthur to be very right.    
Arthur hated it, yet... it was the thing that kept him from forcing himself back into Alfred's life. He was selfish, but he did genuinely care about the American's wellbeing, and he knew that just appearing back within his life would not be appreciated in the slightest, and would only really increase the chances of Alfred responding very negatively towards him and his very existence.     
   
Arthur was pulled out of his thoughts quite suddenly, as he was asked if he wanted more wine. He hadn't even really noticed that he had reached the bottom of his glass so quickly. He mumbled a half-hearted response, waving his hand in dismissal. Only a couple more hours on this stuffy train, and he would be within the country in which this stupid meeting was going to be held within. Only a few more hours, and he would finally see Alfred again after much too long. He hadn't bothered turning up to the last couple of meetings (much to Ludwig's horror and rage); the first of which had been a complete accident. The second and third meeting, however, had been quite intentional. He hadn't wanted to even see the American, much less be in the same room as him. The thought made him irrationally antsy and angry – an emotion he often experienced whenever he didn't really know how to feel, or was confused in any way. He had no reason nor right to be angry. Plus, the idea of seeing Francis and having to hear about his life post-break-up seemed almost too much to handle. He really didn’t care to know about Francis' most  recent love affair, nor his woes connected to such. Francis was the sort of person who needed and thrived on validation and attention, and really as much as Arthur hated it, he supposed he was very much similar, in a weird way. While Francis was so openly needy and demanding regarding his insecurities and vices, Arthur was much more indirect about it. He approached the topic delicately, expertly. It was disgusting, yet he supposed they all had their flaws.  

There were dull butterflies flapping unceremoniously within his stomach as he watched the little dot that was supposed to represent the train crawl along the path towards their destination. He was too close for comfort. Alfred's plane had probably landed already. He wondered if he was alone. He wondered if he had picked out a hotel room already, if he had unpacked and decided to wander around and entertain himself. He genuinely wanted to know how the American was. As much as he hated to admit it to himself, he somewhat missed him.    
Oh no, he definitely, definitely missed him. While it hadn't started off as Arthur missing Alfred himself, rather what his body offered, but... well. He supposed, he was much more delusional than he thought he was.  

When thinking back upon the past months, it was as if time had contorted into one continuous lump of passing, going, and coming. He had trouble pinpointing when certain things happened – if some of the events he seemed to remember even did happen at all. He felt as if he really was losing his mind. He looked the part too. His nights and days had blurred into one another, an endless cycle consisting of existing and drinking and fucking and sleeping. It was humiliating for him to think that he, who had once been seen as such a gentleman – the one who was always composed, the one who always had his shit together, quite frankly... didn't. Having his shit together was the last thing he actually had. But he would be damned if he wasn't going to play the part within the meeting – his personal life was personal after all. And how he chose to spend it wasn't the business of anybody but himself. So what if he chose to drink until he was in a stupor, if he chose to pass his time trying to forget but remember at the same time? So what if he spent most of his time trying to erase himself from the current reality to be able to retreat to one that he had long left behind? So what if he... God. No one could know. No doubt some nations would be worried, some smitten. But he couldn't stand pity. He could stand smugness, he could stand arrogance and indignance, but he couldn't for the life of him stand pity. And he knew that if anyoen caught wind of how he was living currently, that pity would be all that would be able to be read from the American's face. He didn't want pity. He didn't want that stupid American's pity. _He_ was the one who pitied _America_ , not the other way around.  

It was his own fault. He knew that he had the opportunity to stop it whenever he wanted to really, however he couldn't find it within himself to really, really want to. It had been meeting Kaleb that had proved the final crack in the dam that had served as his self restraint, the final straw that broke the camel's back.    
Kaleb... had been so much like Alfred. He was so much like Alfred.    
It wasn't as if it was real, anything that happened between them. Arthur paid Kaleb for his time, and Kaleb in turn was paid by an unknown number of men – lonely men, sad men, similar to Arthur – so he would be able to pay for his university fees. Kaleb didn't spend time with Arthur because he genuinely enjoyed it. He didn't spend time with Arthur because he wanted to. Sure, he had admitted to Arthur that he was one of his more interesting, and  attractive (which had been somewhat flattering, coming from a prostitute he supposed) customers, and that he wouldn't have minded if they would continue on to be friends over time, it wasn't... really the same. But it was a good replication of what Arthur had wanted, and that's all Arthur really was after. That's what Arthur was paying for.    
He had grown quite fond of Kaleb. He was a smart kid. Charming, intelligent, with a bright future if he managed to pull himself out of his current occupation. Arthur would ensure that he would do so, eventually. When he found it within himself to be able to move on - if that would ever happen.    
   
Kaleb knew about Alfred, but he didn't really _know_ about him. To Kaleb, Alfred was but a name. A faceless persona that he was to play out. Alfred, to Kaleb, was the manifestation of Arthur's sinful desires and pleasures. Alfred was the name that Kaleb would pretend to respond to, Alfred was the name that was his for the night. Kaleb was really a good sport – he allowed Arthur to do what he wanted. Not that he wanted to do anything too strange (apparently there were some really strange men out there, stranger than Arthur, that Kaleb had had the displeasure of meeting). For Kaleb, Alfred was a character. But for Arthur... he was obviously much more than that. However, the arrangement with Kaleb was one that he knew he would have to make sure no one would find out about. It wasn't even the fact that he was having sex with a prostitute that was the issue. He couldn't even care less. It was that Arthur was... well. For lack of a better word, replacing what he didn't have with the best he could.    
Kaleb was the perfect candidate. He had the similar body type. He sounded somewhat similar. But it wasn't exact. There would always be the yearning for the real, authentic thing. He was suitably immature, yet he wasn't really stupid despite acting as such sometimes. He carried the false sense of innocence, the charisma and confidence and the same sultry looks. But he wasn't the _same_. But he was the best he was going to get, the best he was going to find. After all, how many people would allow a man like Arthur to play out the fantasies he wanted to? Who would allow Arthur to call them by someone else's name, who would allow him to play out the thoughts he had whenever he touched himself drunkenly at night, the thoughts that were so perverted that he would never admit to?    
   
He reached the station much quicker than he would have liked.    
Arthur's face was expressionless, a mask he had mastered all too well, as he collected his minimal baggage and stepped off of the train and onto the platform. It was too humid. He could already feel the sweat starting to collect on his skin, forcing his shirt to stick to his form in a rather unpleasant fashion. He loosened his tie, walking towards where he knew his chauffeur would be waiting for him and sliding into the backseat. He pulled out his phone as the engine started and the next segment of his travel began.   
 

☎  **Alfred ☆ Monday; 12pm** ♪♫♩ 

 

Would Arthur actually bother to turn up to this meeting?    
The Brit's absence had quick become the latest gossip amongst the countries, numerous rumors flying from nation to nation with speculation as to why the nation of England hadn't bothered to show his face at the last few meetings.    
When England hadn't shown up to one meeting, it had been unusual; it had been penned up to Arthur feeling under the weather for one reason or another. However, once Arthur hadn't made a grand appearance after missing the second and even third meeting, it soon became the talk of the town. Alfred had heard it all at this point; though most theories could be easily be debunked with a little discussion and thought put into them.   
There were theories that it was to do with Francis' and Arthur's most recent attempts at a failed relationship (which was false, as Arthur hadn't really cared for the Frenchman in the slightest, and Francis, despite how convinced he was that it was true love, had already moved on), that Arthur was terribly sick due to his current political status (which could be partially be true, however Alfred found it hard to believe that after all that Arthur went through that he would only now be so heavily affected by stupid political decisions made by his people), and even a theory that Arthur had _died_ (which Alfred was pretty sure could be chalked up to the efforts of one particular Prussian). Alfred was pretty sure that he was one of the reasons that Arthur had made the obvious decision to pass on the last few conferences (a decision which was doing Ludwig's head in), however the exact reason for Arthur's absence, he couldn't be sure of.    
Could it be that maybe his harsh words that he had spat out after the conclusion of their last 'exchange' had finally registered in Arthur's head? Alfred doubted it. Arthur had been like this for years - why would he only reach that level of self awareness _n_ _ow_ of all times? It truly was a mystery, however Alfred didn't care.  

Ok.  

Maybe he did, but he fucking _wis_ h he didn't. He was still angry over... well. Where would he even begin?  Where  _could_ he even begin?  
  

He hadn't heard a thing from Arthur since their last encounter. He wasn't so disappointed as he was angry and irritated. He had hoped for the Brit to get angry enough to call after him to give him a piece of mind so that the American would be able to really dig into him. However, the phone call never came. And Alfred didn't know why he had expected anything different really. Arthur probably had laughed off his anger once the American had left the hotel room. The very thought that he didn't really even _matter_  to Arthur gave Alfred a bitter taste in his mouth. However, he had spent already too much time wasting his energy obsessing over why Arthur didn't seem to even really give a shit about anyone, much less the nation he had raised himself. Alfred knew that the old Arthur, the one he had grown up looking up to; that man, that nation... he was very much gone. He had withered away with time. The empire, once proud and great, was gone, and had been replaced with a selfish, bitter shell of what he once had been.  

Alfred sat at his usual assigned seat during the conference, placing his lukewarm cup of coffee adorned with the Starbucks logo down upon the table. For once, he was relatively early. His plane had landed much earlier than planned, leaving him with more than enough time to settle within his hotel and get his shit together – and even get a coffee! Sure, that was cutting it fine, but he still managed. He still managed to beat most of the other nations, too - not that anyone seemed to really care about these meetings enough to be on time anymore.    
   
"Good morning, America." Ludwig greeted him with a slightly arched brow. "You're early today. For once. Are you well?" The blond seemed genuienly concerned, and America shrugged, slapping on a somewhat cheeky grin.    
"I'm always on time. After all, the meeting doesn't start until I get here. So I don't know what you're talking about." Alfred snorted, and Italy stifled a little giggle much to Alfred's ego's delight.    
"Don't encourage him." Ludwig muttered towards his better half (much better half, in America's opinion). Feli wrinkled his nose at him and rolled his eyes before his attention seemed to be almost immediately grabbed by the arrival of his older brother. If Alfred ever needed comfort that his attention-span wasn't that bad, he only need to observe Feliciano for a few moments. That man had the attention-span of a piece of gluten-free spiral pasta.    
   
Alfred slid down into his own seat, getting comfortable as he started to sip at his coffee. It tasted like shit - it wasn't even warm anymore. And they didn't do it _right_ anywhere except in the good ol' U.S of A. Alfred knew that while Arthur had been the center of attention due to his continuous no-shows, Alfred himself had managed to become quite the 'trending topic' amongst the countries themselves. He was perfectly aware that they thought that the American was of recent, uncharacteristically quiet. The rumors were much more realistic, however, coming down to the understanding that there was 'something on America's mind, that may or may not have something to do with Arthur's disappearance'. It was a wonder, what with all the gossiping that happened between the countries, that no one had really caught on to the closed-door affair between Arthur and Alfred that had been happening for quite the while.    
He supposed it wasn't that unusual. Especially between nations who were so significant to one another – especially when one nation raised the other into who he was today. Hell, he even knew that Francis and Mattie had had a few flings with one another. Even though Alfred found Francis a bit creepy, he supposed Mattie could say the same about Arthur.    
Alfred shook his head. He didn't want to think of this right now. He didn't want to think of Arthur. Thinking of Arthur always ended up resulting in a waterfall of feelings, memories, thoughts... and it was always a wild ride that regrettably always ended the same way. With Alfred's hands down his pants, either tugging at his dick or shoving his fingers into his ass and most definitely moaning out Arthur's name.  

It wasn't a surprise to anyone when Arthur didn't decide to show up by the time the meeting started. Alfred couldn't really say he found himself disappointed – he had already suspected this to be the case. Arthur held grudges, as well as held onto the most stupid things _ever_ , and might not even show his face for a year or two. Whatever.    
Alfred scribbled on his notes as the meeting started, as well as the usual hurling of insults. He didn't have the fucking energy for this. He wouldn't have been bothered coming at all if he didn't genuinely fear that Ludwig would have a genuine aneurysm over another nation 'slacking off'. He sighed, propping his chin on his hands and gazing off into space. Only a few more hours and he could find something better to do with his time. Until then, he could maybe just use this time to  switch his brain off for a couple of seconds. Maybe get some much-needed sleep. Staying up late playing Overwatch was really starting to take it's toll.  

Alfred hardly noticed when the usual chorus of irritated voices seemed to dwindle down until the room was unusually quiet. Only when he felt a sharp kick to his shin by Mattie did he fall back into reality and realise that there were various states of emotions scrawled upon the faces that surrounded him. Anger, confusion, amusement, amazement, smugness. Pity.    
Alfred couldn’t help the scowl that crossed his features as he turned his gaze to the newest addition to the monthly shit-fest.    
  
_He was wayyyyy too fucking tired for this._


	5. Alfred ☆ Monday; 12pm - ?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a million years. Does anyone even read these anymore?   
> If you do, I love you and thank you. Have a lovely day/night.  
> \- K

Alfred tried to avoid eye contact with Arthur the whole meeting. Hell, he tried to avoid even looking vaguely in his direction at all – opting to watch either the speaker, or his half-empty coffee cup. Occasionally he would glance at his notes; which consisted of a few scribbled drawings, the word 'fuck', and Alfred's name in the top right-hand corner. This was more than he usually wrote on his notepad, which he was quite sure had pretty much remained unused since he purchased it a few years ago. The only reason he had bought it was because of the clever marketing they had used to advertise it; something about stone being made into paper. It had been expensive, and even though money wasn't something Alfred had to worry about, it irritated him that he had spent so much on something seemingly with no use to him. His coffee had long since gone cold at this point, however it hadn't been any good anyway. It had tasted more like dirty dishwater than anything. Maybe he should have asked for some more sugar or a shot of vanilla or something, but he doubted that that have would improved on the quality much. Foreign countries never ever did Starbucks any justice.    
   
The meeting seemed to go on for what felt like an eternity, and what Alfred usually found to be entertaining only served to get on his nerves. He wasn't in the mood for banter, or for petty arguments. At this point, he just wanted to get back to his hotel room. Maybe go to a local bar, have a few drinks. Neglect his responsibilities; find someone who was willing to go back to a hotel with him for the night. Have reckless sex, and be left feeling emptier than when he started because it had been nothing like he had wanted it to be. And what _did_ he want? He knew, but he wished he didn't. So he pretended it was a question void of an answer, one that he was searching for but would never find. Pretended like he was searching for something that didn't exist; because, it didn't. It was an opportunity that had had an expiration date. Something that had been lost through time, and that he couldn't ever get back. He had to accept that, though he didn't want to. And looking at Arthur would only bring back that insufferable tightness in his chest; the one that crawled up his neck, and squeezed the fucking breath out of his lungs.   
It used to be called love. Then it was hate; and now, it was a painful sort of apathy. One that left him feeling hollow, one that left him almost desperate to feel anything, anything at all. He hated that feeling more than he hated anything else; the feeling that there was something missing. And he knew exactly what it was. 

He didn't know if it was in his head, or if Arthur really was trying to catch his eye. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the man, couldn't bring himself to see if it was his imagination, or if the man was simply just tuning out like he did usually in these meetings; and happened to be staring in his direction. Only when Mattie nudged him, and mumbled something about Arthur having been looking at him weirdly the whole meeting, was the matter settled for Alfred. How convenient – he hadn't even had to look at him to know his answer. He mumbled back that Arthur was weird, and to let him look. That he was probably, finally, senile, and that he should be put in a home. It was the usual jest towards his age, however, it didn't hold the usual playful tone to it. Alfred was aware his voice sounded flat; and held an edge to it that could only be described as discomfort, or frustration even. And he was full of both of those things.    
Why had Arthur decided to show up? Sure, he was entitled to be here. Hell, he was supposed to be. But that didn't mean Alfred was happy about it. He hadn't been to the past three meetings, so why was this the meeting that he decided was important enough to show his face at? His mere presence, added to the fact that he was obviously trying to get Alfred's attention, was enough to raise the hairs on the back of his neck. It was enough to make him clench his jaw, to clench his fists. Couldn't he just get the damn message? Maybe he _had_ gotten it, but just chose to ignore it. That was definitely like him. To be an arrogant prick. To think that whatever burning statement he had was more important than the obvious anger that someone else held towards him. And while at one point, Alfred would have found that admirable, at that moment, he found it insufferable. 

The end of the meeting couldn't come fast enough. Alfred usually lingered around, however, that could not sound less appealing to him at that moment. He grabbed his things, mumbled something about needing a cigarette, and headed out of the stuffy meeting room without a second thought. He didn't even really pay attention to where he was going exactly – he just wanted, no... _needed_ out. Anger was practically radiating from his body at that point, and he wanted nothing more to just leave and not see Arthur until he decided to show his face once again at another meeting; and who knew how long that would be. The longer, the better. Alfred needed time to think of what he was going to say. If he was honest with himself, he wanted to punch Arthur hard in the jaw. He wanted to draw blood, to cause even the smallest amount of pain so he could at least have some idea of what he was putting other people through. Sure, Francis was fine now. He had gotten past their break up, but he never really  _knew,_  did he? He never really knew about what was happening behind his back. And there was no doubt that if he found out, it would be a different story. If it had been anyone else Arthur had cheated with, Alfred would've had no problem ratting him out. But it was Alfred – and to tell Francis, would not only cause issues for Arthur, but himself also. After all, what sort of asshole did that?    
 _This_ asshole.    
   
Alfred eventually found a courtyard he could chill out in. He had no idea what part of the building he was in, nor did he really care. There were a few sad looking plants, and the floor was covered with scattered cigarette butts. Alfred had an intention of adding to that collection.    
He sighed; heavily, the breath feeling as if it had been sitting in his lungs for way too long. As if it had been building up over the duration of the meeting, and only now could free itself into the atmosphere.    
"Fuck that." He muttered to himself, or to no one in particular; pulling a cigarette from his pocket. He put it between his slightly chapped lips, and fished around for his lighter. Ah  _fuck_.    
"Do you need a lighter?"    
Alfred nearly scowled at the sound of someone else's voice; however, at this point, he was just happy it wasn't Arthur. No, instead, it was Francis. Which was still slightly better than Arthur – if only by a tiny margin. A tiny, tiny, tiny margin.    
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, thanks." Alfred mumbled, and Francis walked over to him. His strides were always so confident, and smooth. He always carried an air of regalness about him; even when every other country looked worse for wear, he always looked perfect and pristine. Always well-manicured, always perfectly groomed. Alfred could understand why Arthur had seen Francis as an asset, rather than a risk or a detriment like Alfred apparently was. It was because Francis looked good on your arm. He was almost like a trophy. Always perfect, always dainty, always attractive. He never really raised his voice in public, and he always was so superficial. But in a way, that was smart – lure people into thinking they know you, because you talk. But you never really  _talk_ , it's all just bullshit about bullshit topics. People liked Francis. And not because they had to, but because they genuinely admired him. Alfred was starting to learn the difference, now. 

"Why are you here, Amérique?" Francis even lit the cigarette perfectly. "You left in quite a hurry. I thought you had somewhere to be; not that you were coming here for a cigarette."    
"I could ask you the same thing." He said, and Francis laughed. His laugh was one that rang out. It was sweet, melodic. But there was no humour in it.    
"I'm here for a cigarette. And this is the closest area I can smoke." He said, lighting his own cigarette as if to prove some sort of point; or maybe add validity to his statement. "I also wanted to ask you if you are... okay." He seemed to pick the words carefully, as if he wasn't sure if he wanted to hear the answer really. It was kind. But Alfred was suspicious. "You have been seeming off. We are worried about you. Matthieu is worried about you." Ah yes. Of course. Francis would never approach Alfred to ask about his wellbeing on his own accord; however, if Mattie was seriously worried, Francis would want to be able to help provide him with some closure. Alfred envied how close they were, despite everything. He wanted that. He wanted that  _so bad_.    
"I'm fine." Alfred inhaled, slowly. He held the smoke in his lungs, before he exhaled. It was a habit he had picked up off of Arthur – he had seen him do it countless times while he was growing up. He did it whenever he was stressed. Whenever he was thinking about something real hard. "Just been havin' a lot on my mind recently."  _Like the affair I've been having with your ex-boyfriend._  "And I ain't really in the mood for a meeting."    
"Ah. Oui, but when is anybody in the mood?" Francis laughed to himself, tapping the cigarette lightly. Alfred watched the ashes fall onto the toe of his shoe. "I was surprised Arthur showed up today, though. He looks like shit." He commented, and Alfred steeled himself. He really, really didn't want to talk about this. "I think he was hungover. He is smelling of alcohol." Alfred wasn't surprised. He exhaled, and tilted his head back slightly. Chin up, jaw set.  _Defence_. "It was good to see that he is not dead, don't you think?" Francis seemed to stare off into the distance, squinting a bit. Alfred looked at him. He wondered if Francis had found a new lover. Most likely. He wondered how often he kissed Arthur on the lips. He wondered if he even knew the half of how jealous Alfred was whenever he was around them. If he even knew of what he and Arthur used to have. It had been fleeting – only one summer. But it seemed like it was a lifetime; one that had taken place another lifetime ago.    
"Yeah. It's good to see him." Alfred responded, though his tone was a little flat if anything. Francis didn't notice. Or he pretended not to. Alfred needed more time. How much? An eternity, maybe. It would take him an eternity to get over Arthur.    
He had shaky hands. And the cigarette burnt his mouth, though he had no idea why. Or how.    
   
There was a silence, just the two of them smoking in one another's presence. Alfred knew he ought to ask things; ask him how he was, if he was okay after the break up. If he had found someone new. How Mattie was, if they were going to do anything together soon for the upcoming holidays. But he couldn't find it within himself to care that much. He still hated Francis – even though he knew it was childish, and immature. It wasn't Francis' fault, yet he still hated him. He hated him for taking Arthur away from him - even if Arthur had pushed away from him on his own accord. He hated how perfect he was, and how he made Alfred look like a bumbling, clumsy idiot with no idea how to do anything for himself. He hated how easy it was for him to just recover, to bounce back. How did he  _do_ it?  _How did he?_

"Had you heard from him before today?" Alfred found himself asking, his eyes focused on a droopy plant. It was dying. He wondered if someone would water it before then, or if it was just doomed to die. On this dreary courtyard, where people went to escape the suffocating atmosphere of meeting and working your life away. What were any of them doing?  _Did anyone even_ _know anymore_?   
"Non." Francis said, obviously deep in his own thoughts. He looked up at Alfred, cigarette between his lips. He reminded Alfred of a movie star from the silver-screen. "Pas un mot."   
Alfred got up, dropping the cigarette to the ground and stamping it into the cement with the toe of his shoe. It joined the hundreds of other nicotine corpses that littered the area around them. He didn't look at Francis as he grabbed his stuff to leave.    
He had just remembered – he fucking hated courtyards.   
"I don't speak french." 

☎♪♫♩

Knowing that Arthur was in the same country as him made Alfred restless. It felt like his clothes were never sitting right, that his skin was crawling. He was always looking twice, always making sure he wasn't about to cross paths with the Englishman. But by the time he hailed a taxi to take him to his hotel, Arthur had seemed to once again cease to exist. It was like he just disappeared into thin air – and at this point, Alfred wouldn't put that past him. That made him angry – the fact that he had just disappeared. After all that effort of trying to get his attention in the meeting, he just upped and left. He hadn't even tried to get Alfred to try and talk to him, hadn't even begged for just one word in.    
But then again, Arthur had never really been one for begging, unless it was in bed. And they weren't in bed.    
There were no texts, no calls. No messages, nothing. His phone was blank as far as Arthur went. And while he wanted nothing to do with Arthur, it also frustrated him to no end that he hadn't even really tried that hard. He wanted to tell Arthur himself that he wanted nothing to do with him. He wanted that opportunity to express his anger, to lash out. He wanted to watch his words sink into Arthur's skin. But Arthur was smart. He wasn't going to allow Alfred even the hope of that opportunity.  He would try, but only in a very controlled way. Only so he knew he still had the upper hand.    
   
Alfred tried distracting himself. He tried gaming, tried browsing the internet. That had ended badly – resulting in him stalking Arthur's profiles, trying to get some hint of what was going on. What had he been doing? Had he been seeing someone? But his profiles were just as dead as he seemed to be. They were there, but they were frustratingly blank and boring. Arthur had never been someone who was really into social media, so Alfred didn't know why he thought now would be different. Did he expect the man to just suddenly post his life on his wall, or tweet about the newest guy he was banging?    
Alfred felt like he was going crazy. Slowly, but surely. He had been brooding over the meeting for hours; sitting in his hotel room, anger and confusion simmering under the surface of his skin. That, and hurt. He was hurt. Why had Arthur not tried harder? Didn't he think Alfred deserved that much? Maybe, just maybe, he had wanted Alfred to put in the effort too. But of course, why would he do that?    
For closure. Maybe Arthur wanted Alfred to reach that conclusion himself – he no doubt didn't want to talk to Alfred if it was just going to result in a nonconclusive verdict; one where Alfred was going to just end up angrier than he was; one that resulted in Arthur disappearing again. Maybe he wanted Alfred to be mature about this. And while that irritated Alfred to think about, he supposed that Arthur did have a point in that regard. Nothing would be achieved if he wasn't ready to really discuss things.    
As he retrieved his phone, his stomach was practically flipping with nerves. He hadn't spoken to Arthur in months. He had seen him that morning, but hadn't even heard his voice. He knew, rationally, that nothing much would have changed in that time apart. It wasn't even long in the grand scheme of things, but... he had missed Arthur. As much as he hated to admit it. As much as he fucking hated it in general.    
   
 _artie_ _._    
 _need 2 talk 2 u. where is_ _ur_ _hotel?_    
   
It was a shot in the dark. There was no telling if Arthur was even going to respond at this point. Maybe Alfred had been wrong about Arthur's approach and intentions. Maybe he was just hoping for the best, reading into something that wasn't even really there. And as 30 minutes passed without a reply, he was starting to think that that was the case. Arthur wasn't trying to be reasonable, he was just being an asshole. There was often a fine line between the two when it came to Arthur Kirkland, and the Englishman was often teetering along it.    
Alfred had started on a bottle of whiskey and was scrolling through Netflix in an old oversized shirt and his underwear, when his phone finally vibrated. Not having expected any message, the vibration had scared the living shit out of him, and he ended up clicking on a series he honestly had no intention of watching any time soon.   
He stared at it; at Arthur's name on his screen. He was surprised he even decided to answer, though kind of pissed off it had taken him fucking 30 minutes. What had he even been doing in that time? Crocheting? Embroidery? He rolled onto his back as he opened the text, squinting at the screen to read it. His heart started to beat fast in his chest, and his breath caught in his throat.    
 _It was a_ _n address._  



	6. Arthur ★ Monday ; 10pm - ?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just believe him. It's easier that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that this isn't the end of the fic, and things aren't okay between the two. I deleted this chapter originally as I thought it wasn't effective in communicating the complex dynamic between the two characters, but after reviewing it I decided to keep it up.   
> Until next time my amigos

Arthur hadn't expected this.   
He hadn't expected a message from Alfred asking where he was, saying in such a simple way that they needed to converse. As far as Arthur was concerned, they didn't need to discuss anything. What was there even to discuss? He had been pretty sure that Alfred hadn't wanted anything to do with him, especially considering the nature in which they had parted ways. He had even outright said it, hadn't he? And yet, Alfred had texted him, out of the blue. Given, it was in terrible grammatical form, but it was still a text nonetheless. Arthur was half convinced it was a joke; that some other country had hacked into his phone somehow, and decided to cause some issues through messaging Arthur with such an open ended request for conversation. Arthur didn't even think twice about sharing his location, something he cursed himself for after the message had sent. He probably ought to have thought that through more yet, a certain relief mixed with eagerness had taken him over, and he couldn't help but want to indulge in whatever small hope remained in his cavernous, hollowed chest. It was the ghost of what once lived there, what once blossomed inside him. The remnants of the garden they had planted together within his chest that one summer many years ago, the garden that had bloomed and blossomed within him in a way that no other before it had ever managed to. For once, in his miserable curse of an existence, he had felt a true beauty emanating from the emotions he felt. They were pure emotions; emotions that saught out only the comfort of the other, emotions that felt warm under his skin, and that one could only dream of having. But it wasn't enough - or maybe, maybe it was too much for Arthur to handle. He cut all the flowers, pulled out all the roots. What was left there were weeds, seeds permanently germinating, rotting under soil. It wasn't poetic at all in reality. The only thing it was, was sad.   
Arthur didn't really know how he ought to prepare for such a thing. As no doubt the American was making his way over to the hotel in which he was staying - one purposely further away than most nations were - he sat on the edge of his bed and waited. He stared at the door, his hands clasped, and he had to remind himself how to breathe. Because god knew, that had suddenly become much harder than he remembered it being. He knew that he was being immature, that he had to grow up and deal with this in a much more refined manner. And he was trying, but there was still an undeniable tremble that resided in his hands. He had no idea what to expect. He hadn't thought for a second that this was going to happen, and yet it was. And for the first time in a very long time, Arthur had no idea how to respond to it. 

By the time there was a knock on the door, a business-like, two knocks, Arthur had only served to tidy up a bit, send a text to Kaleb, and fix himself up a little. If Alfred wanted to talk, they could talk, but he wasn't going to do that looking less than his best. That would be unprofessional, and Arthur prided himself in being professional. He waited a few seconds, staring at the door. There wasn't the usual jiggling of the doorknob that Alfred did when he was impatient - though, did he even do that anymore? Arthur couldn't remember. Maybe he had grown out of that annoying, yet charming, habit. Maybe, most likely, Arthur told him to quit it, and he had. For some reason, that sent a pang of pain shooting down his torso. His breathing stuttered. It wouldn't have been the first time Arthur had stopped Alfred from being himself, just because of his snappy habits. It was a wonder Alfred hadn't decided upon hating him any earlier than this.   
  
Another two knocks. A shift of weight.   
  
Arthur got up from the safety of the side of the hotel bed. For some reason, even unknown to him, he was intent on being as quiet as humanly possible. He didn't want Alfred to know he was there, inside the room; though they both knew that he was. Each footfall was greeted by the softness of the carpet, and as he stood just centimetres from the doorknob, there it was. A little impatient jiggle. For some reason, Arthur smiled just a little at this. Old habits never left. Even if your grumpy company told you off constantly for doing it. It seemed so insignificant now. So...   
Arthur heard a shift in movement, and he knew that it was Alfred starting to turn to leave. His hand shot out and he grabbed the doorknob, giving it a quick twist and a yank and pulling the door open with an almost surprising, and embarrassing amount of force. He half expected it to be the cleaning lady for some reason, but it was Alfred. A few centimetres taller than him, muscular yet curvacious in all the right ways, glasses slightly askew on his nose, a slight flush on his cheeks. He had really grown up into a fine young man. The frown lines on his face didn't suit him at all.   
They were quiet for a moment, Arthur's hand still on the doorknob. Alfred stood in silence, his hands deep in his pockets. Arthur noted the dusting of rain that was on the leather jacket, and he had to fight the urge to fuss over him. His hair was slightly dishevelled. He must have had to walk in the rain to get to him.   
"Are you going to invite me in?" It hadn't even been that long, yet his voice alone was enough to make Arthur's chest clench almost painfully. No, not almost. Definitely painfully. "Or are we going to talk out here? Because I'm fine with both." There was something undeniably sexy in the seriousness that resided in Alfred's voice. Seldom did anyone see this side of him, and he knew it. His jaw was set, and his shoulders were back, and Arthur just wanted to hold him. Talking was the last thing on his mind. But he supposed it was the only option.   
"Yes. Yes, sorry. I'm off in my own head. Forgive me." Arthur murmured, nearly wincing at the sound of his own words and voice. He sounded so... rushed. Sharp around the edges. But that's what he was, wasn't it? Overly sharp, always on edge. Keep distance, keep distance, keep distance. That's all it ever was, and that's what ended up fucking all of this up for him. Alfred had been his chance at... something. Happiness? Maybe, quite possibly. But of course, he had to have sabotaged himself, didn't he? 

"Yeah." Alfred muttered in response, and pushed past Arthur into the hotel room. He didn't say anything about the bottle of whisky on the nightstand. Nor did he say anything about the fact that the hotel room was far from elegant or even charming. It was a shitty room. Arthur knew that, and had picked it out for that purpose. Alfred stood. He didn't sit, even though there was an armchair in which he could have, if he was so inclined. He stood, his hands in his pockets. Even though he was obviously trying to be mature about the situation, there was still the childlike quality about him. The uncertainty of what to do, the cluelessness. He was just as lost as Arthur was, but Arthur was far better at hiding it. If Alfred was going to stand, Arthur would too. He stood a few steps away, his hands clasped in front of him.   
"Where have you been?" Alfred's voice sounded a little strained. His eyes were trained on the hotel bed, that Arthur had made sure to make up before Alfred's arrival. Arthur tried to find words, but he found his mouth dry instead. "No one's heard of you for..." He trailed off, as if deciding his next words weren't important. A silence, only punctuated with the distant sound of other hotel occupants through thin hotel walls and floors.   
"I was home." Arthur said, finally. It wasn't a lie. "I didn't go anywhere. I just... lost track of time." It sounded like a flimsy excuse, even to him.   
"Lost track of time, huh? That's it, is it?" Alfred pursed his lips, pulling a face. Arthur didn't know what to make of it, and stayed put. Alfred inhaled, and Arthur could sense the shakiness in the notion. Though they were similar in physical ages, Alfred was still so much younger than him. Arthur almost felt guilty. "You didn't even think to... to text me when you dumped him?" Alfred said, his voice small. Arthur frowned.   
"You told me not to contact you, Alfred. I expected you to call on your own accord once the news undoubtedly got to you." He said, and he had to fight the urge to speak through his teeth. Sharpness wouldn't be a good option. This wasn't like any other encounter he had had with Alfred. This was new territory. And Arthur knew if he fucked this up, that it would fuck it all up. It wouldn't be the first time.   
"Don't you think I deserved to know, Arthur?" He was hurt. Arthur could hear it in his tone. "Or wasn't that something worth your time?"  
"Don't be stupid, Alfred. Of course--"   
"How am I being stupid, Arthur?" Alfred interrupted him, finally, _finally_ looking him in the face. Arthur almost wished that he hadn't. "You honestly didn't think you would at least call me? Text me? Instead, you drop off the face of the earth for months on end and then just pop up and expect everything to be okay? Are you fucking-- Are you actually that... that..." Alfred was so worked up, speaking so rapidly that he was out of breath, his cheeks red and his hands clenched into fists.   
"I didn't expect anything to be okay, Alfred. I didn't call you because--"   
"Then why the fuck did you just come back and act like it's all fine? It's not fine, Arthur. This, _us_? _We're_ not fucking fine." Alfred's voice was getting louder, and Arthur felt his own anger start to rise within himself, despite his hardest attempts to subdue it.   
"I gave you space, Alfred. I know it's not fine. I gave you space, I thought that's what you asked for!" Arthur managed, his words becoming sharper and his tone harsher. He knew when he was angry, his accent thickened. As a child, this had terrified Alfred to no end.   
"I did want it! I do want it! But-- God, Arthur, why didn't you just fucking tell me? We were having an affair behind this man's back for the whole duration of that relationship, and you didn't even leave a voicemail to tell me it was over? And you think I'm immature." He bitterly laughed a little, and Arthur clenched his jaw. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Did you think I would come running back to you? Did that unappeal to you so much that you decided to play dead for a few months so you could find some other guy? Guess what, Arthur?" He stepped forward. "Go on. Disappear, pretend like what we had was nothing. That's what you do best, isn't it? It's easier to pretend if you just push everyone away. Especially the ones who care about you the most." Alfred spat, and Arthur could feel the heat radiating from his body. He was so close. Arthur wished this was under different circumstances - that instead of anger, confusion, and hurt, he could just hold Alfred. Tell him he was sorry for all of this. Explain it all, explain himself. But he knew it was too late for that. Alfred would never listen. He would never understand nor would he want to. "I bet you've found some new guy. That's it, isn't it? He probably worships the ground you walk on. Are you together? How long until you find some other cute guy, who's willing to cheat, because god knows that that relationship you have isn't good enough. When will it be good enough, Arthur. Is it ever good enough? Was I good enough? Did you cheat on me too? Wasn't I enough for you--?"   
"I never cheated on you, Alfred." Arthur's voice was a stark contrast to the American's. His anger was controlled. Calm. His voice was level, rather than echoing off the walls.   
" _Bullshit--!_ "   
"I never fucking cheated on you, Alfred. You were the best thing--"   
"Don't."  
Arthur stopped. Alfred's voice sounded pained, as if he had been stabbed in the stomach. His eyes were once again on the bed. Arthur wanted to beg, plead with Alfred. But he couldn't find the words. It was like he was trying to walk through quicksand, trying to talk with cotton in his mouth.   
" _Don't._ " He repeated himself, his voice quieter now. It took Arthur a moment to realise Alfred was crying. To see the slow crumbling of the reassurance he had walked into the room with. His shoulders no longer squared, he looked more vulnerable than ever. Arthur felt as if he was falling apart just looking at him. Knowing that this was his doing. That he had caused this sort of hurt, this sort of pain and uncertainty, within the boy. He really hadn't meant to.  
"Stop lying to me, Arthur. Please." He sounded almost breathless. Arthur wanted to reach out and touch him, but he was frozen in place. He couldn't feel his own breathing, or heart, or anything. Everything was numb. "Please just... stop lying to me like that."   
"I've never lied to you, Alfred." His voice sounded foreign to him. It was unrecognisable. And his voice trembled. His whole body was trembling. His knees felt weak. "I--"  
"Then why did you leave me?" It was a question that Arthur shouldn't expected, but one he had no answer for. It left his mouth dry. Alfred let out a quiet sob, finally crumbling enough to have to sit on the edge of the bed. His head was in his hands. Arthur, was rooted to the spot, his tongue feeling swollen in his mouth.   
"Because I don't..." He began, his voice wavering. "I don't deserve you. I don't deserve you, or the happiness you bring to me." Alfred didn't look up from his hands, instead digging his fingernails into his scalp and tangling his fingers in his hair.   
"Did you ever think about me?" Alfred said, his voice soft and tentative. "About what I wanted?"   
"I thought you'd be better off with someone else, Alfred." He slowly took a seat on the edge of the bed next to the boy. Alfred didn't say a word, instead just let out a little telltale sniffle. "And now I see that... maybe that wasn't the best idea." Arthur reached over, and tentatively placed a hand on Alfred's knee. He squeezed it. Alfred looked up, just the slightest, from his hands. His face was red from the crying, and Arthur felt his own cheeks redden slightly.   
"You don't _say_ it was a bad idea." Alfred managed, a tiny, minuscule, sad smile on his features. Arthur managed one of his own, though he couldn't look at Alfred for too long. No, his chest hurt too much for that. The fact that he had made Alfred cry like this, that he had made him so angry... it was like rubbing salt into infected wounds. "It was a terrible idea." He wiped the back of his hand over his nose, and sniffled. "But I want to believe you." Alfred moved slightly to his right, moving closer to Arthur. He rested his head against Arthur's shoulder, and Arthur found his face buried in Alfred's golden hair. It was always so soft, and always smelt so good. He closed his eyes, moving his hand from Alfred's knee to around his body. He pulled him close, and god. He had missed this. He had missed the closeness. Being able to properly touch Alfred. It was like getting a hit from a drug he had been trying to come off of. No amount of sex with Kaleb under Alfred's name, no amount of drinking, no amount of anything could ever come close to the feeling of Alfred being close to him. Arthur didn't even care that his phone went off. He couldn't even find it within himself to care if the world ended right then. He would happily die, finally, just like this. Holding Alfred, his love, in his arms. His sin and soul, his yearning and needing. It all came down to this boy. Alfred had no idea, and he never would have any idea to what extent Arthur truly loved him. He would never know the sorts of atrocities Arthur would commit in his name alone. Arthur knew, as Alfred moved closer to him, and as he held the boy as he cried, that he was doomed to this, for the rest of his eternal life. That even if Alfred didn't want him anymore, come that terrible fate, he would be there at the youth's beck and call. He would be anything Alfred wanted him to be. _A father, a mentor, a lover._ All of these, or none at all. The drug that ran through him, that kept his soul young, and that kept his mind from decaying sat in his arms. Arthur was a selfish, disgusting man. And because of that, when Alfred tilted that perfect face of his upwards for a kiss - the kiss of a boy filled with confusion, with hurt, betrayal, and anger; a kiss he should have declined, 

Arthur took it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Loving me some resignation.


	7. Alfred ☆ Monday ; 10:30pm - ?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again and again and again and again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ehehehh,,, I haven't written smut like this in an eternity and a half. But that's what this chapter is.

Once upon a time, maybe, he would have been able to believe Arthur; back when he thought Arthur had the best intentions for him. Maybe once upon a time, he  _ had _ had pure intentions. Maybe once, he had genuinely wanted the best for Alfred, and didn't think of his own wants and needs first. But that time in his life was long gone. At some point, the caretaker within Arthur; the one who had been intent on guiding Alfred, on making sure the boy grew into a mature and strong man who was not taken advantage of by the big bad wolves - had become the big bad wolf. Arthur didn't have his best interests at heart. He hadn't for a very, very long time. Alfred knew that. He had known it for years, and yet he always ended up in square one; always ended up telling himself that it wasn't true.  

Arthur was just saying what he knew Alfred wanted to hear. He was wrapping Alfred around his finger like a piece of string, nice and tightly so he could inevitably tie him up into a neat little bowknot that Alfred wouldn't be able to get himself out of. Alfred didn't doubt that much. That's just what Arthur did. He got under your skin; into your head to the point where once you noticed what exactly he was doing to you, it would be too late and the damage would already be done. Arthur was a creature born from survival instinct. It tainted every aspect of his life – the need to be the one with the upper hand, constantly having to be the predator and not the prey.  

If Arthur did, in fact, love Alfred (which he knew, to an extent, he did), he didn't love him like you  _ should  _ love someone -  his version of love was twisted and distorted, a result of a past that Arthur had never been able to fully let go of. He was a man adorned with hurt; scars on his skin just markers of those that were inside of him that were far less superficial. His trauma, his inability to move on, ran and ruined his life. And even if Alfred pretended he didn't know these things, he did. He just had no idea how to approach it.  

Arthur was in love with the idea of someone who would constantly forgive him, no matter how terrible of a thing he would do. Of someone who wouldn't leave, because god knew Arthur was terrified of such a thing. Even if he wouldn't ever dare to admit it - Alfred knew. And while he hated the fact that he met both of these criteria, all he really wanted was for the older man to be happy. He didn't want to leave Arthur, not again; he knew it would destroy the old man, however, at what cost to Alfred would it be if he stayed? He didn't want to think about that; because he knew that no matter the cost, he was willing to pay it. He was willing to pay anything if it meant keeping Arthur's head a few inches above the water that constantly threatened to pull him under and drown him.  

Alfred knew all of this, yet he couldn't stop the hope that flooded every fibre of his being at Arthur's words. A hope that was strong enough to drown him in ignorance, a blissful state in which he could pretend that things were fine and that Arthur was being genuine. He knew Arthur's words were oversimplifying the situation at hand. Arthur probably knew that too, but like Alfred, he was unwilling to come to terms with it. For a man who was supposedly a million times wiser than Alfred, he sure did a lot of the same things Alfred did to avoid having to confront his own demons. Alfred knew that this encounter between them – the escalation of events, was a mistake. These encounters always were. That he would end up lying in his hotel room, his chest aching and his head screaming; but his body satiated in ways no one else could ever manage to achieve for Alfred. Alfred wanted the past back – and Arthur was running from it; so here, they were creating a compromise. Meeting in the middle, and creating something far more harmful. He, himself, was far from innocent. He had done his fair share. He had lied to Arthur, had manipulated him. The advancing of their relationship from something platonic into something otherwise was solely based on Alfred’s efforts, and those had been far from direct. He knew that they were both hurting but god. He needed a fix. A moment. He just needed one moment.  

Arthur’s lips were just as soft as always. For as long as Alfred could remember, Arthur's lips had been that way – even as he had aged, even through the rise and fall of his empire and the continuous mess of his personal affairs, his lips remained soft and gentle. They were, and always had been, a stark contrast to practically everything the Brit was these days. Sharp edges, sharp words, sharp looks, sharp, sharp, sharp.

Alfred couldn’t help but remember the first proper kiss they had shared - or maybe, he couldn’t ever dream to forget it. It had been scandalous. Stolen. Lasting only a few moments, Alfred hadn’t missed it when the man’s lips moved against his own in reciprocation, a brief second that turned everything into a mess of confusion and chaos. Everything they had known about one another – about their relationship, where they stood, had been tossed to the ground by that single moment. Understandably, Arthur had freaked out, and had told Alfred off before disappearing for a few hours. Alfred had felt both betrayed and triumphant. He had kept that a secret. He hadn’t even told Mattie. Maybe because Arthur told him to keep it quiet. Or maybe because he wanted this for himself. A stolen moment. The beginning of the mess they were in.    
It had taken Alfred a good while to manage to kiss Arthur again. That time, Arthur had responded. He had been drunk. Crying over some guy - over how he was so lonely. Alfred knew that he had taken advantage of the situation. After all, he had waited until the perfect moment. One where Arthur was weak, emotional. One when he was more likely to give in if Alfred pushed him slowly into the position he wanted him to be in. He  _ wanted _ Arthur - he was curious, and he had wanted more. That night he had lost his virginity, and thus his ability to truly love or lust after anyone who wasn't Arthur. Maybe this was all an attempt for Alfred to try and replicate that moment. To try and bring back that dizzying sense of innocence, the hazy, suffocating sensation of need. Need for what? Approval? Love? Sex? Maybe all of it at once. All he had ever wanted was approval from Arthur. He only ever wanted to be good enough - and he knew he was good enough in bed. That was one thing Alfred was certain of.  

 

The kiss started off chaste, but quickly devolved into something fuelled by something far less innocent. Lips parted, Alfred had missed Arthur's taste. He tasted now like cigarettes and alcohol, with the underlying taste of mints and butterscotch; something that only had Alfred practically gagging for more. He didn’t pull away - he knew he should have. That this was so stupid, and so fucking dangerous for the both of them. But he was greedy. Alfred had always been greedy, especially when it came to Arthur. To his attention, to his affections, to his love. He hadn’t gotten any of those things for what felt like multiple lifetimes, and while the rational and mature part of him was screaming at him to stop, to tell Arthur to _fuck off_ , the bigger part of himself buckled at the knees at Arthur’s feet. Ready to do whatever he wanted; ready to do whatever it took to get him back, if only for a moment. That moment was worth a thousand lifetimes.   
Arthur had always kissed like he had spoke. It started off so proper - their lips meeting over and over and over until it made Alfred dizzy and breathless. Yet as it progressed, as it escalated, it unravelled. It became messy and sloppy, it became needy and open-mouthed as they both struggled to get closer to one another. Neither of them would ever admit it, but both of them were gasping for air. Alfred needed to quit smoking. Arthur needed to quit running. Both of them had their vices.   
Alfred was pretty sure Arthur was bruising his lips. Or maybe that was his own fault. At this point, it didn’t matter, and he didn’t care. Arthur could rip him limb from limb, and he would thank him for the time. It was terrible, it was toxic, but so was he. Alfred was scrambling to get as close as he could to the man - his fists balling up into his shirt, and Arthur growled lowly in his throat, a hand finding purchase on the back of his neck and tangling into his hairline. He was squeezing just so - a reminder, perhaps. A silent warning, or a subconscious desire to keep him close. Whatever it was, it made the hair on Alfred’s arms stand on end and goosebumps erupt all over his skin. The kiss was a bastardisation of what it once was at this point, and as Arthur’s arm wound around his waist, coaxing Alfred to slide onto his lap, Alfred felt like he was going to either moan in pleasure or pain. It felt like his touch was burning, but in the best possible way. He wanted that same fire to consume him. He settled happily on Arthur’s lap, even though the fit was a little awkward. Arthur’s hands were both in his hair now, and Alfred could’ve sworn he was crying. Alfred didn’t feel bad - instead, he just roughly bit on Arthur’s bottom lip. The no-doubtedly sharp pain made Arthur groan, a curse leaving him as he pulled away from the kiss for a moment before almost instantly returning. Alfred could feel him beneath him - Arthur. His brain was going a million miles an hour - jumping from memories from the past to the present and everything in between and outside. He could feel Arthur’s tense muscles, he could feel the rapid beating of his heart and the uneven, racing breaths that were leaving him with each inhale and exhale. He could feel his slightly shaky touches, could feel the hardness against him that made Alfred’s head spin in the best way.  
“Please,” He didn’t even sound like himself. Alfred was surprised he had spoken, and Arthur seemed taken aback by the sudden word; as if it had dragged him back somewhat to reality. “Please, Arthur. _Please_.” He didn’t know exactly what he was asking for. He didn’t know why his voice was shaky and hoarse, almost strained. The strong Alfred from before was gone; replaced now by… this. Weak, needy, and wanting. Arthur ran his hands down Alfred’s body slowly, down his sides and over his hips. His eyes followed, his gaze hungered and starved at the same time, as his hands hitched up Alfred’s shirt just the slightest to expose his midriff. Alfred dared to roll his hips downwards, and Arthur moaned in response, his grip on Alfred’s hips tightening so much that Alfred was sure it was going to bruise. _Yes. That’s what he wanted_. “Please,-- please, _sir_.” He knew he was laying it on thick now, and Arthur’s cheeks flushed. His lips parted, and Alfred could see his mind racing a million miles an hour.   
“Alf--” He began, but seemed to cut himself off. Alfred certainly wasn’t helping, now having started to establish a slow rocking onto Arthur’s crotch.   
“Artie-- please. I want it. Please, just give me this.” The words had worked before. And Alfred knew Arthur recognised them all too well, judging by the shallow rolling of his hips in response to Alfred’s pleas. Alfred could feel Arthur’s final threads of resolve slipping. Whatever reservations he had had were snapping. While Arthur had Alfred wrapped around his pinky, Alfred knew that he had Arthur on a tight leash. And he would always be able to pull him back in with a simple tug. “Arthur--” He began to whine, and Alfred felt Arthur’s nails bite into his skin in a warning.   
“Alfred.” Arthur’s voice was rough around the edges, his accent all too prominent on his tongue and heavily weighing down his words. “Address me properly.” Alfred wasn’t going to protest, instead he pouted.   
“Yes sir.” He sulked, and whatever last words that the better half of him were trying to get into his head were lost as Arthur’s hand slipped up his shirt. He leaned forward, pressing a sloppy trail of kisses across Arthur’s jaw as his arms wrapped around the man’s neck. He dropped his hips into Arthur’s lap roughly, eagerly pressing his ass up against the man. He was getting impatient - no, scrap that. He had been impatient from the very start. Arthur’s hands were hot on his skin, and Alfred sighed happily at his touch. “Missed you, so much.” Alfred pouted, his big, baby blues staring into Arthur’s. He knew he was weak for them.   
“Missed you too, petal.” He breathed, “Missed you too much.” Alfred smirked, his hips rocking and rolling in perfect time with Arthur’s. He could feel his cock, hard against his clothed ass. It gave him a sick feeling of satisfaction - that he could do this to Arthur. He could make the great nation crumble so easily. Make him hard, so easily and simply.   
“Did y’think of me, huh? When you were fuckin’?” He tilted his head in curiosity, almost sickeningly innocent. Arthur reached out, a thumb swiping over his plump lips, and Alfred chuckled as he took the finger into his mouth momentarily, swiping his tongue over it.   
“Yes. Always.” Arthur admitted, one hand travelling down Alfred’s body so that he could grab a handful of the boy’s ass. “No one beats my special boy.” Those words simultaneously made Alfred feel warmth radiate from inside of him, as well as his cock start to twitch in his pants. “You going to take those off for me, darling?” Arthur tugged playfully at Alfred’s belt loops, and Alfred more than happily obliged, moving off of the man’s lap a little in order to be able to undo the button to his pants. He pulled them down, just enough to expose what he needed to. Arthur’s eyes were on him as the Englishman seemed to mirror his movements - only with much more fluidity than Alfred could ever dream of pulling off. His cock was straining against his underwear; and heat shot through Alfred’s entire body at the sight alone. There was nothing he wanted more in that moment than Arthur. His body, his mind. Everything he had to offer and more. Alfred licked his lips and let out a soft groan, resting his head against Arthur’s shoulder as he brought their hips back together. He tilted his just so - so that he could grind his ass successfully against the bulge. He was panting, his cheeks red at this point. He knew he was acting like some random teenage boy; desperate to get off, clumsy and inexperienced. And in that moment, that’s how he felt. Desperate and clumsy. Arthur cupped his cheek in his hand, running his thumb over the boy’s lips as he gazed at him with an expression Alfred didn’t know if he understood.   
“Look at you,” Arthur breathed, and Alfred nearly missed his words over the sound of his own heavy breathing and soft whines as he scrambled for more, for closeness and intimacy. “So needy. It’s almost as if you haven’t been fucked in the time we’ve been apart. But we both know that isn’t the case, is it, Alfred?” He sounded so fucking normal for a guy who was fucking against Alfred’s clothed ass, who had one hand shamelessly groping at him while the other was working essentially to hold him in place. Alfred gently sucked on the finger that wandered over his lips, his eyes closing. “You’re a little slut, Alfred. Were they older guys? Guys you shouldn’t want but do? Guys like me?” Alfred’s brows pulled together at Arthur’s words and he let out a small whine, pulling away from Arthur’s finger.   
“I have needs.” He mumbled, leaning more into Arthur’s hand to his face. “I missed you so much. And touchin’ myself didn’t cut it.” Arthur laughed softly at this, and Alfred retaliated by slamming his hips roughly against Arthur’s. Arthur inhaled sharply, hands flying to Alfred’s hips instantly to still him. “I bet you found a guy just like me, huh? Does he call you sir? What does he call you?” Alfred continued, leaning in closer to Arthur. “Does he call you master? Daddy? I bet it’s daddy, isn’t it? _Daddy_. You’re disgusting, Arthur.” Arthur only grinned at that, wolfishly, his hand sliding from Alfred’s hip and slowly, ever so slowly, dipping into Alfred’s underwear. Alfred shivered and let out a whine.   
“He doesn’t, actually.” Arthur breathed, leaning close so he could speak into Alfred’s ear. “But you can. I bet you like that, don’t you? Secretly. You’re just as disgusting as I am - even worse. Making advances towards the man who raised you? You’re abhorrent, Alfred.” Alfred was quickly forgetting what it was to breathe as Arthur’s hand trailed over his ass, dancing over his tailbone before slowly, ever so slowly, moving down so he could trace over his entrance. Alfred tensed, and he felt his cock throb painfully. “Do you like it when _daddy_ touches you like this?” Oh, that was fucked up. Alfred wasn’t going to do anything, though, except let out a soft whine and tilt of his hips. It was like he was drunk off of the pleasure. “Do you want to ride me? Show me how much you missed me?” Alfred nodded, unable to find any words. Arthur chuckled, removing his warm hands from Alfred. Alfred frowned at the loss, making up for it by pushing down what remained of his underwear. He groaned as his cock hit the open air, and Arthur reached over to the bedside table to retrieve a small bottle of lube from the top drawer. Alfred didn’t question why it was there - instead, he pushed down his pants some more and grabbed the bottle from Arthur. He had never been a huge fan of preparation. Sure, a few times he had fingered himself and it had been fantastic - but that’s not what he was after at this moment. He just only had his eyes on one thing, and that was getting Arthur inside of him. Arthur seemed almost dangerously calm, even as Alfred worked himself open in front of him. The man only rubbed himself through his underwear as he watched, murmuring words of encouragement from time to time and telling Alfred how much of a good boy he was. He wanted to be a good boy.   
Once the third finger sat comfortably inside of him, Alfred pulled the fingers out, wiping them onto the bed beside the two of them.   
“I don’t have a condom,” Arthur began, and Alfred interrupted instantly.   
“I don’t want one.” He sounded destroyed. His voice was a shell of what it once was. Arthur clenched his teeth, his jaw tight. “I want you to cum in me. Please.” For something so lewd, it sure did sound genuine enough. Arthur let out a low groan.   
“You’re going to kill me, boy.” He grunted softly, pulling his cock out of his underwear. _Finally_. Alfred used his hands to spread himself apart, lifting himself up a little and lining himself up. He wasted no time. He wanted it. He wanted it. He wanted it. _He wanted it now._   
Tears came to his eyes as he slowly sat down, feeling Arthur finally, finally, fucking finally, enter him. It had been too long, and Alfred felt almost like he was going to cum or pass out, or both. He was panting, not bothering to hide it as he tried to steady himself for a few moments. Arthur, in the meantime, was gritting his teeth, holding onto Alfred tightly.   
“Fuck.” Arthur cursed, though it was more of a whisper that left him. “Fuck, Alfred. You’re-- goddamn tight.” Alfred clenched almost automatically at that statement, and Arthur moaned, his thick brows pulling together. Alfred didn’t need too long before he started to move. It was slow at first - small, shallow movements of his hips as he tried to get used to the painful, yet pleasurable feeling of being stretched out. The sound of skin against skin - the smell of sex, it was enough for Alfred to go crazy. He felt like he was going crazy. Arthur’s groans were like an aphrodisiac to him, only serving to make him want more, want to go harder and faster. Soon, Alfred was bouncing on Arthur’s cock, eyes closed as noises of pure ecstacy left his lips. He knew that the people in neighbouring rooms could hear him. Arthur too, considering he was being far from quiet. Arthur knew what spots to hit, where to sink his nails and teeth into. He knew what to say, he knew what to do. That’s why Alfred loved him. That’s why Alfred hated him. And it was only a matter of 20 or so minutes until the both of them were at their peak - Alfred practically screaming, and Arthur buried deep inside of him as they both finally fell overboard into an orgasm.   
  
Alfred had thought that maybe, maybe the regret would set in the next day. He found however, that he couldn’t face Arthur once the semen on their skin, and deep inside of Alfred, started to cool. He didn’t know what to say, and he didn’t want to hear anything come from Arthur’s mouth. In a perfect world, they would sit in silence. Arthur would be understanding, would hold Alfred close and bury his face into Alfred’s hair. But Alfred knew that that wasn’t an option. That Arthur would either ask him to leave, or the awkwardness between them would be overbearing as they both tried to think of what the right thing to say and do next was. They both fucked up. They both knew. And it was settling like led in the pit of Alfred’s stomach. He had let it happen again. And he knew it would happen again, and again, and again, and again. He was fucking weak. He was weak.   
And even though, that by the time Alfred got up and threw on his clothes (in a way that almost seemed as if he was scared) the regret had started to leech deep into his bones; he couldn’t stop the words that left him before he walked out the door to leave this fucking mess behind.   
  
“I’ll see you tomorrow, Arthur. You have a good night.”   
  



End file.
